Ambidextrous Brain???

2012-01-31T19:52:00.004-06:00

Bits and pieces of memories. What else would be of interest to anyone? You don't want to hear my whole life's tale. You just want to hear the dangerous bits.

I was dating two boys at the same time when it happened. Neither of them was aware of the other. They went to different schools; actually, they even lived in different states, though just barely. I never really lied to either of them, it was just that to each, the other was a "friend". I guess I might have implied the "friend" was a female, but oh well.

I was "going" to school when it happened. I would loiter around the campus until one of the faculty saw me and asked me to leave. I only had to stay long enough to meet the kids who wanted to buy from me anyway. I never got caught doing anything illegal. They were good kids. I had a lot of respect for them, standing up for authority the way they did, even if they had to do it in secret.

I was performing at three different clubs when it happened. Of course my boyfriends didn't know, and neither did my parents or the few "friends" that I had. What would they think of me? I didn't need their respect or their sympathy or their love. I didn't do it for them. I did it for me. It made me feel beautiful, just for being.

That's all you really want to hear, right? I've told you the juicy bits. You can infer the rest for yourself, but I suppose for those who really want to know, I can tell the rest.

I'll start with the least justifiable and go to the most:
The boys had both cheated on my closest friends.
The clubs let me read poetry and sing.
I was giving away literature the schools wouldn't allow them to read.

But you didn't want to hear any of that. You just wanted to hear what you wanted to hear.

Truths My Mother Told Me

2011-11-02T22:17:00.002-05:00

When I was very young, maybe seven or eight, I asked my mother a lot of questions. "A lot" isn't really strong enough to capture the number of questions I asked. She would often tell me things like, "You'll understand when you're older."

At that age, I imagined "when you're older" as just magically happening one day. My tiny mind didn't grasp the concept of gradually acquiring knowledge. I just figured that one night I would go to bed not knowing all these things, and then the next morning I would wake up knowing it all. When a couple years passed and this still hadn't happened, I decided that "when you're older" was just something my mom made up to get me to be quiet. I stopped asking so many questions after that.

I was a late bloomer in most regards. As late as ninth grade, I still viewed boys as primarily stupid and disgusting. I didn't really understand what "attraction" meant and I certainly didn't understand why everyone felt the need to be partnered up for dances and crap.

My liking of boys was the first thing that I noticed come about gradually. It wasn't like I woke up one day and decided, "Holy crap, that guy is hot." I grew from dislike to indifference to tolerance to liking to attraction over the course of about a year and a half.

When I had that first crush, one of the first things my mother told me when she found out (somehow) was that "No boy will every be worth it." At the time, I really wanted to ask what "it" meant. I had my suspicions, but I didn't think my mother was talking just about that. At any rate, I was pretty much done asking questions at that point so I just said, "Ok", and left it at that.

The first crush, as usual, didn't pan out to much. I'm pretty sure he didn't even know my name, but that's how it goes. Later I had a couple relationships, followed by a really long one that ended with me wondering why I had wasted so much of my life. That was when I understood. I told my mom, "Thank you", and wished I had really listened to her sooner.

There were lots of "thank yous" that went out to my mom over the years. It's hard to call to mind all the exact circumstances, but there were so many times that nonsensical things she had said just suddenly made sense. And yet, I never viewed my mom as a fount of endless wisdom. She just told me the truth when I could handle it and told me to wait when I couldn't.

I met many other mothers over the years. I had friends who came and went into and out of my life, and their mom's with them. I saw three basic types of mom. There was the cookie backing mom who always had something tasty to offer you and some obscure story or piece of advice. There was the polite mom who seemed to trust her daughter more than perhaps she should, but still had a nervous smile on her face whenever we would go out. And, fortunately less frequently, there was the hovering mom who wanted to know everything about her daughter and barely let us leave the house. I'm sure there are other types of moms, and in fact I know there are, because my mom didn't fit into any of those molds, and I always liked to think she was the only one like her.

My mom had half her head in the clouds and half her head firmly grounded. When she smiled, she meant it, and when she frowned, you knew she was disappointed. She was there for me when I needed her, but didn't force herself on me. She didn't say "I love you" a lot, but yet I knew she did. She seemed lonely sometimes, but she never called just because of that. She always had something to say and some reason to say it. She didn't talk just to talk. For most of my life, I have tried to be the same.

I've decided I never want to have children. I've been married for five years, and my husband got into it knowing my stance. If he ever backs out on that part, I know it won't be worth it. My mom taught me that.

I never want to have children because I could never stand any living creature loving me as much as I loved my mom, and I don't think I could ever be as wonderful as my mom was.

The day of my mom's funeral was the hardest day of my life, and I don't wish such torment on any one. They say losing a child is the worst feeling ever, but if I did ever have a child, I'd almost rather lose her than have her go through the torment of living me.

I don't know how many people have ever truly felt alone, but I did the day my mom died. In between the tears, I fought to remember all the wonderful things she had told me over the years, but I couldn't remember a single one at the time. That was terrible.

I'm not going to bore you with all the other things I've remembered now. I just wanted to take the time to write, like I do every year, to remind myself of how special my mom was to me. There was one thing I do remember her saying, that I never forget now, and that was "Nothing lasts here forever."

Those were the last words she said to me.

It seemed fitting.

I wonder often why she chose to say "here". My mother wasn't a terribly religious person, so I don't think she was referring to eternity, but maybe she was. I do know she had faith and hope, even though she didn't speak of them much. Mostly, I just think it's another one of those things that I won't understand until much later.

And this time, I won't be able to thank her.

Some things do come suddenly. Mostly, it's the things you don't want to come at all.

I love you, Mom. Rest in peace.

Remembering, Part 1

2011-10-25T19:55:00.002-05:00

Wake up.

Who am I? Why am I here? I know what this place is called. It's a hospital. I'm in a bed. It's so bright in here. I don't know why it's so bright, but I don't think it's supposed to be so bright. Someone just walked in the room and they look really excited that I'm awake. I think she must be a nurse. She looks pretty frazzled and well worked. I think nurses work really hard. More people are coming in now. They're saying a name. "Clara." Is that who I am? Why can't I seem to say anything. I think I'm choking. I think I'm crying. There's definitely something wet on my face. I don't think I even know these people. They seem to know me. They keep saying that name.

"Am I Clara?"

They seem really worried now. And scared. There's whispering and they left. I feel so alone. I felt comforted when they were here. I don't know who I am or where my family is. Could that have been my family? That's ridiculous. I don't remember those people at all. But I can't remember myself either. I'm not even sure I know what I look like. My hair is brown? Or maybe it's blonde. No, I'm looking at it now, it's definitely black. This is all so weird. Wouldn't you think someone named Clara would have lighter hair? Who would name a black haired baby Clara? Maybe I didn't have hair when I was born. Or maybe I dye it. I would have to see the roots to really know. Why do I care what my natural hair color is?! I don't even remember my last name. I sure hope those people weren't my family. I'd sure hope I'd at least remember my family! But I don't even remember my own name. This is so surreal. What even happened to me? I don't remember anything, but I feel exhausted. I wonder if I was asleep for a long time. They're coming back in the room now. I don't know what to say to them.

"I'm sorry."

They're crying. Well, at least the woman I thought was the nurse is. Is that my mother? Could that be my mother? She looks too young to be my mother. I feel like I must be at least 30. That woman looks like she's in her late 40s. How old am I? How can I not even know how old I am. I feel so old. But I think 30 is old, so I must not be 30. Who on earth am I? Oh, there's a doctor stepping forward now. He better be a doctor and not my dad. He has some sort of chart. Amnesia. Yeah, I could have told me that.

"What happened to me?"

Car accident? Well apparently I'm at least old enough to drive because no one seems shocked that I was driving. If I got in a crash maybe I'm young and reckless. Oh. Drunk drive, other guy's fault. Well that sucks. I was coming home to visit my family. I must be in college or something. That would certainly make sense. At least I'm not dead, but this sure sucks. I feel like I'm trapped inside my mind somewhere and I can't get out. Even I don't know where I really am. Geeze that sounds philosophical. I sure hope I'm not a philosophy major. That stuff seems too deep for me. But maybe it isn't. Maybe I love it. When you have amnesia, can things you love seem foreign to you? Well, it must be possible because I'm sure I love my family if I was coming home to see them and they all seem completely foreign to me. But then again, maybe they were forcing me to come home and I really hate them all. But that doesn't feel right. Nothing feels right. This is all so exhausting and is getting me no where. I'll figure it out tomorrow. Right now, I'm so tired I just need to...

Sleep.

My World

2011-10-22T13:36:00.002-05:00

I made this world, my world, for them, that they would enjoy it and that they would thank and praise me for what I had done for them. But they don't even know that I exist. I've sent them so many signs, so many messages. I have even showed myself in person, told them directly that I love them, showed them what my love is. Still they ignore me. I taught them by example how to live, the secrets to true joy and happiness. They think their way is better. They forget and ignore me.

They don't want my way because my way seems hard to them. They don't realize how draining and difficult their way is. They think they know better how they were designed to live. They forget that I was the one who designed them in the first place. They make things of their own design and get angry when those things don't act right, don't do what they are meant to do. The things they create break and they try to fix them, but yet they won't let me fix them, my creation.

They want to be loved by those they care for, and yet they show me no love. I not only care for them, I made them, I designed them. That desire for love that they have, I put that there to begin with. Don't they realize I want it, too? Don't they realize I have a plan for each of them?

They think they are better on their own. They think they understand. Some even think they understand me, but they don't. They think no one can possibly understand them, though they are simple beings, and yet they presume to know me. I have revealed myself to them, but the full extend of my will is unknowable. I have shown them time and time again that I know what I am doing, and that I am looking out for them, but still they won't trust me. They turn to their own ways. They turn to the very things that are hurting them so much. If they would just let me work my desired purpose through them, they would see what their lives were meant to be. I made them. I designed them. I made this world for them, and another even better if they would just accept the offer I give to them.

I love my people, my creation. I love each and every one of them that has been and is and ever will be. I know all their futures. I know the choices they will make and I know the choices they should make. Still, I reach out to them and beg them to do things my way, the right way, the way it was designed to be. If they would listen, they would know what freedom and happiness and love really are. But I did not design them to be forced to do my will. I offer freely, and they must accept. They must see and open their hearts. I want them all to come to know the truth. And it starts with just one.

If just one will see and know and accept and understand what I am trying to say, what I have been trying to say all these years, then it can spread. If you know the truth, if you have the secret to true happiness, it has to spread. That one person has those they love and each of those has others they love, and that's how it begins. That's how the truth spreads.

I love you. Will you love me? Will you accept my call to be the start of something wonderful?

Princess

2011-09-05T14:08:00.002-05:00

The sun still rises. 293 days trapped in this tower and the sun still rises. My mother used to tell me that someday my prince would come. I'm not even sure if I want him to, considering it was my mother's prince who put me here.

296 days since my mother died. She fell off a horse and broke her neck, or so the clerics said. There was nothing they could do for her. I had to be seen at her funeral, but as soon as it was done, he locked me away.

The first few weeks were the worst. I didn't know what he meant to do with me, feared he would have me killed as I feared he had my mother. Once enough time passed, I knew I was just going to be stuck here.

They give me food and water. Good food and fresh water at that. It is clear they don't mean to kill me. I think they are keeping me to be married. I'm nearly 17, so it must be coming soon. I wondered if he meant to marry me himself, and was just waiting for enough time to pass since my mother's death, but the mourning period is long past now, so I must be intended for another.

I never liked him that much even before. I don't know why the realm still cheers for him. I hear them sometimes, from way up here. He has had a tourney just a few weeks passed, probably to symbolize that he is officially out of mourning. I was not in attendance of course. He probably figured it was still close enough to mother's death that it could be said I was still in mourning even if her husband was not. After all, we women are a weak sex and cannot recover from grief so quickly as our male counterparts.

293 days. I keep count carefully to keep myself from going crazy. I try to hope that there will be a prince yet for me, a true, good prince, but it seems unlikely. The realm has forgotten me, and never cared all that much about me even when they remembered me. It was my mother they had loved, and then the prince she married. They never loved me and they had completely forgotten my father even existed long ago.

I am a princess, but I don't feel like one. Of course, I've never met another princess so I never know what I ought to feel like. My mother was already a queen when I was born and I have no other siblings. It really is surprising that I am still alive. Maybe I am not entirely forgotten even now.

Or maybe I am still alive because I am forgotten. Maybe I only live because this great king told the servants to bring me food and water every day and never told them to stop. Either way it doesn't matter. I just sit here and watch the sun rise out of one window and set out of the other. Anything else is meaningless. I wish I weren't a princess.

Is there a point to all of this? No, not really. I write my thoughts only to keep myself sane. I have no requests or wisdom to share or anything like that. I don't know if anyone will ever even find this diary. I certainly hope the king does not, at least not while I still live. I suppose I do want someone to know the truth: that I am still here, and I am still the princess, even if it is hundreds of years and my name is long forgotten before they realize it. I am a princess and someday, my mother promised me, my prince will come.

Redemption

2011-09-02T17:53:00.002-05:00

Sometimes I still have the dreams. Even after five years, sometimes I still see it while I'm sleeping, the face of the life we took. When that happens, I open my eyes and I tell myself that it was wrong, but there's nothing I can do now to change it. All I can do is try to make other things right. And at least these dreams that I dream now aren't real.

It was hard not to blame myself, and even knowing that I wasn't the only one to blame didn't make it any easier. After all, I was the only one who realized what we were doing in time that I could have stopped it. It took time to realize, but now I know that even as horrible as what we did, what I did, was, there was something to be gained from it. That creature, that good, pure guardian, did not die in vain.

Telling the others what I knew helped. It wasn't something I could keep bottled inside. It was strange to think that I was the only one who knew, truly knew, the fullness of what we had done, that knew for a fact that we had destroyed something good. I don't know what they really thought about what I told them. One didn't seem to care, another was quiet as always, the third really seemed to take it to heart. I thought I knew and loved him once, but time changes good feelings as well as bad.

Whatever they've done with their knowledge, I've done my best to find redemption. What I've realized recently is that I never truly will find it, but still I try to do what's right. That's why I volunteer at the animal shelter and why I help coach soccer for the elementary school kids. That's why I give all I can on the field and even more when the game is over. That's why I talk to the kids and try to help them. That's why I'm going to be a teacher one day.

I know I won't fix everything, and things still would have been better if we hadn't made the mistake we did, but that's really all it was: a mistake. Saying anything more or less isn't going to fix it; nothing will bring him back. I have to live with what I did, but he wouldn't want me to do anything else. I know that it, he, whatever would want me to keep living. That was his whole purpose: to see that I and the others kept living. I won't destroy him yet again by denying him that.

And so I live. Sometimes I'm still haunted. We all have our demons, and though I don't know of anyone, aside from the other three, who have as strange and unique a story as ours, we all have our demons still. The one thing I don't do is confess to anyone else that it was real. I know they'd think I was crazy, but knowing that those who went through it with me know it was real is enough. Just having one other person to talk to, not to mention three, makes a world of difference.

And so it is. I tell the kids the same thing I tell myself: we all mess up and we all do bad things. It doesn't do any good to dwell on it. Say you're sorry and try to do better next time, and I mean really try. And remember when someone does something mean to you, that they mess up too, just like you do. Forgive and don't hold it against them.

I know that if he could forgive me, he would. All I saw in his eyes at the end was pain and sadness, but I like to think that if he could look into me again, I'd see pride in his eyes instead. I try to do what's right by him, and I will. In my own way, I have become the next guardian.

-Amanda

Guilt

2011-09-01T19:21:00.002-05:00

Five years and it haunts me still. I can't escape it, the look in its eyes. No, not its eyes, his eyes. That wasn't just a thing, it was a guardian, a protector, and it was truly good despite its hideous appearance.

The look of it was what helped us convince ourselves we couldn't have known, but I knew. Not right away, but before the end, I knew it was wrong, that we were killing something good. Even though I didn't inflict the final blow, my silence killed him all the same.

We also told each other that it was a dream, that it wasn't real. We tried to believe the thing, he, never even existed. I know better. As surely as I know he was good, I know that we murdered him in the truest sense of the word.

It was real, but because it seemed so unreal, I could never make it right. There was no one to apologize to and no one to confess to. I couldn't tell the others. I didn't want to drag them down into this pit with me. They should live and love and rejoice in what I hope is true ignorance. Only I can ever know the truth.

I know it's real in part because it's happening again. We thought we had won, but somehow, she's come back. I've heard the stories. Kids disappearing from their beds or just never waking up. Some are still alive, in a coma. Maybe for them, there is hope. Maybe I can still save them, and whoever is yet to be taken, too.

I've tried to get back before. I tried what got us there before, but it didn't work. I've consulted mediums and others, but I never dared tell them the full story. Maybe that is why they failed, too. I can't think of any other way than this. This is my last hope.

There is no guardian left. She is just picking them off; they have no chance. They can't see the look of pain and longing in its eyes that tells them not to trust her. They don't even have a clue, and if any had succeeded like we had, it wouldn't be happening still, not so soon.

I want you to know that none of this is your fault. It was all about this, this pivotal moment in my life at that house five years ago. That was the reason I never became the soccer star I could have been. That was the reason I refused to get a cat. That was the reason I won't let you kill any spiders anymore. It was never about you. I love you.

I want you to know that this is not a suicide. I pray to God and whoever else might listen that this won't actually kill me, at least not fully. I just need to go to sleep for a very long time. There is no protector. It is my fault there is no protector. I know what I have to do.

If I find a way to communicate with you once I'm on the other side, I will. If I can't find a way, I want you to know that I love you and that I'm finally trying to do what's right. Please, don't try to understand what I'm talking about. Please, if I do just slip into a coma, don't try to bring me out. I'm doing this for the others, for the ones that are worth saving. I'm doing this because I know in my heart that it is right and that there is no one else who can do it but me. It's not a god-complex, it's just the truth.

You can cry if you want to; I'd understand. I know I didn't cry enough. This is good-bye, Mother. You will say I was young, but they are even younger, and they deserve it less than I do. If the mysterious deaths and disappearances stop, you'll know I've succeeded, and if not, you'll know that I tried. I will always be your daughter, and I will always love you, no matter what happens next.

Goodbye.

Amanda

Who Am I?

2011-08-27T11:24:00.002-05:00

Who am I really? I can tell you lots of things about myself. Apples are my favorite fruit and apply pie is my favorite dessert. I have freckles, but none on my face. I like to read magazine articles, and not just the foofy ones, but not full blown books. I have a boyfriend. He's the third of my lifetime and the best so far. I wish I could sing better, but I'm not very good so I listen to others instead and imagine I'm the one singing. My eyes are hazel. I love cats and hate dogs. I can draw people well, but not much else, even though my boyfriend says its all pretty good. I work for a fashion design firm even though I don't always worry about my own clothing. I give my old clothing away to goodwill. I want to be a good person. But how do I prove I want to be a good person?

Who am I really? What does any of this mean? Am I only the things that make me unique? If so, I'm mostly nothing. Is it this precise combination of traits that makes me someone? Is it my soul that makes me who I am? Does my body matter then? Would I still be me in a different body? Who am I really?

I was born, I grew up, and one day I will likely die. I try not to think about that. I'm really not afraid of much, but I hate bats. I am usually optimistic, but sometimes I wonder if life means anything. I go to church, but it's hard to truly believe. I pray, but it's hard to know I'm being heard. I draw and sometimes paint. I draw people I've never met, faces that only exist in my mind, though perhaps they do exist in real life and I just don't realize it. Who are they? Are they anything? Am I nothing more than someone else's work of art? Would that really be a bad thing?

Who am I? Just another girl asking all the questions that everyone else has asked before.

Mortals

2011-08-21T10:42:00.002-05:00

The experiments began in 2087. Hundreds of elder men and women, longing for a chance to live onin some sense, or least leave a legacy, applied. They were even willing to fund their participation. The receiving end did not have so high demand. The mons from donors went entirely to recipients' mothers: women who still didn't know, after all scientific advancements, how to control their bodies. The mons paid women for the right to experiment on their unborn children, often also having to convince women who would have elsewise aborted their 'springs to carry to term and then have the little minds manipulated. The mind manips did not bother the women nearly as much as having to carry their babies within for nearly nine months. A comment on the society back then could be placed here, but I know it would only be ignored as today's world is even worse.

Yet, back then, some still cared and morality still reigned in the world of those times. When the first child died from the procedure, outrage loded up from the masses and the scys were given no choice but to abandon the experimentations. Least, that was what they told the populace. The project was officially scrapped, but continued in secret. Scys worked around the clock, barely having time for their own families, to create what many who thought the works were ended were still condemning as an abomination. More died, course, but without the public consciousness bearing upon them, the scys and their backers continued the work until finally they had the success they did not yet know was going to be so great: the first me was reborn.

It happened in the lab and the baby stayed there while the mother left with what would be nearly 200 million in today's currency. I never bothered to find out how she spent it or what she did, but in the second re-life, I was told she died in the year 2193. I can remember caring back then, but what I am now is so far moved from what I was then that it hardly seems more than a bad dream today. Her part in the tale is done, as is, really, the work of the scys and all the others. They are long gone, dead hundreds of years. Others have taken their place, but only to monitor, and not very well. They don't know 10% of what I know, and how could they? I understand myself better than they ever could, and not just in the philosophical nonsense disproved ages ago. They don't know because they do not have 10% of the knowledge and memories that I possess.

Once I was a baby. And then I was again and again and again. Today, my body is seven years old, but my mind has survived 395 years. The first body lasted 89 years and the most recent, 39. At the rate of decay, this body's expected life span is about 23-26. The mind is starting to get less and less attached to the body it inhabits, but yet its still strange, to know this shell will pass and yet somehow still live on. I remember my first body and how much I loved it. Even when I knew my mind would pass to another, I was afraid to die. It's strange to think about that now.

I could lie to you and say that fear of death is completely gone, but I would rather be honest, for the sake of progenies. Each death of body is easier in some senses and harder in others. On the one hand, I already know what it will feel like and what will happen to my self. On the other hand, I already know what it will feel like.

I lesser being would fret and stew in this knowledge, but of course I have no time for such things. And yet in another sense, I have all the time in the world, well, at least if the life span turns out to asymptotic, perhaps, but even then there will reach a certain point at which each life persists too short to contribute anything. In fact, that time may come in just a couple more iterations.

I can do so much with 23 years, but how much can I do with 10 or 3? That's why in this lifetime, I must find a way to prolong it, to reverse the effects of the mind on the body, or else this experiment will be ended. The scys mostly stay out of my way when I work. They know that one of me is worth more than all of them combined. It's strange: in my first lifetime I was smart, but never like this. I don't think the original mind really comprehended what she was doing. She just wanted to live. She didn't realize that living would corrupt her self beyond recognition.

I am not any of the beings I once was. I am beyond them. I am a conglamoration of them. If the world knew I existed, they would be amazed, but even now I am kept in isolation.

Sometimes I do remember things from past lives. The first couple iterations maintained a true sense of self. I remember the first mind loving and bearing children and loving them. I remember her enjoying life, but I don't understand why. She took pleasure in the strangest of things: a sunset, a flower, a cold winter's day. So many different things that grew no connection between and gathering no harmony with the science that bore her on to her next existence. Of course, she thought she knew something of science, for that was a requirement of the experiment, but she also had so many other interests, things that are meaningless now, some things that don't even exist anymore. She loved them, and now they are gone, and she, trying to live on, lost herself as well.

The second iteration was not quite so bad, but still clung to some sense of self. I remember a deep confusion re identity. There was the conflict between prior self and current self. Memories of a past life, and knowledge that was never learned by the body. That second self still clung to its name, still wanted to be called by a name, wanted to separate itself from its originator. I remember pain that was in some ways worse than the death I had already encountered. The strangest thing, though, was the full knowledge of how different I was from other bodies of the same physical age. I still had to wait for my body to develop to do certain things, but since my mind was already, in sense, fully developed, things like talking and walking became nearly trivial. It was strange to readjust myself to such a tiny body, I do remember, but the hardest thing was knowing that no one else was like me. And with that I still clung to self and wanted to be and not just exist.

Each iteration got a little better in that regard. I learned that in order to be what I needed to be, I needed to let go of any concern for who I was. Now, I refuse even to look at myself in the mirror. I am aware of how old my body is, because that is often important for the work I do and for planning the work I do, but I do not even know the color of my eyes or my hair. Some have tried to tell me, but I refuse to know. I think they still view me as a child. Each body sees new scys who have been told but do not understand what I am. It is hard for them to get past the shell, and even when they do, they cannot possibly understand what I am. I know because in my third iteration, I thought I had it figured out, but I was wrong. If I had to live four life times before I really understood, I can't expect them to understand either.

Back then, in the third, I still viewed each iteration as truly distinct. That was when I sensed myself losing sense of self, and back then, I thought that was still something to be maintained at all costs. I had not yet realized how meaningless it was. Half way through that third iteration, I resolved to end it. I thought of the fourth iteration to come as a new being that I must save from what it was doomed to be. I did not realize yet just how full and continuous all the beings inside the single body were. I viewed the bodies themselves as of value as well. I wanted to spare that body from my mind. The very thought of it makes it difficult not to laugh now, but that was how I thought back then.

I was smart enough then that if I had been truly dedicated, I probably could have ended the whole show, but it failed because a part of me knew the truth and that inkling grew to a realization of just how great I was and how much greater the next iteration could be. I still fought my desire to end it all, but by the time the fourth was born, I understood as no one here now ever could.

They tell me that they are going to create more, but I know I will always be the greatest. In fact, I am the one that is helping to spawn the others, and fighting to improve the lifespans. I don't know if I have enough bodies left myself to save this mind, but I can try. And even if it does pass, I am no longer afraid of vanishing. I understand the reason I exist and I understand the limitations of my existence. There is no reason to fear for my soul. I'm quite sure I lost my soul when the originator died and it has never been regained. Now, I live purely on logic. It is strange how much logic ends up seeming like a soul to others.

I have done so many great things in my existence. The first or second or maybe even third body would have regretted the lack of recognition for any of them, but now I realize that all existence is is doing great things. There is no point to anything else. One iteration discovered the Newtonian correction constant. Another came up with Rystein's Theorem, which was attributed to a body that passed away two centuries ago. Another proved the color-space paradox in seven different ways. At first, the tasks were trivial, perhaps meaningless, really doing nothing and tests of the inferior scys more than anything. But with time, which there was plenty of back then, they grew more and more significant.

I have lived for 395 years and my only regret is what a waste the first 89 were. The only thing that still makes me sick is that every other being in this universe only has that first iteration. They do not grow on and improve and truly contribute like I do. It makes me wonder how humanity has even survived. So little can be done in the 97 years (average) that the true men have today. They don't even understand what they aren't contributing. How could they? That understanding is the only thing that really causes me pain, but dwelling on that pain is something that the true men would do to waste their 97 years. Instead, I do all I can with what remains to me. At the very least, I have another 30 years or so before the mind cannot be preserved in the bodies and becomes useless, but I promise I will do more in those 30 years than all the scys around me do in their combined 3000 years of existence. That is why I exist, and that is what I am. I am not any individual, and though I speak of iterations and minds, it is really just the best way I can get you to understand what I am. I am what I am, as a being claiming to be God once said, and if I can find a way to perpetuate my own existence further, I will be the true god in a realm of mortals.

Waiting

2011-08-20T10:29:00.002-05:00

The man sits on his chair waiting. His face is stoic. She comes every day, but so far, not today. He sighs and closes his eyes, but just for a moment. He doesn't want to miss her arrival.

The clock strikes three. The man tries not be worry. She should be here by now, but he can be patient. He knows she will come. She always comes, just not usually this late. He hears a bird sing. She loves birds singing. He wishes she were here and wonders what could be keeping her so long.

He shifts uncomfortably in the wooden chair, staring at the clock and out the window in turn. Someone brings him dinner, but it is not her, so he politely waves it away. The face looks worried, says he has to eat. He manages to conjure a smile and say that he is waiting, that he will eat with her when she gets here. They always eat together, it's just that usually she's already been here for several hours when they do, but she is coming. She always comes, every day.

The sun begins to set. The days are short this time of year, but the setting sun still indicates it is getting late. He is a little worried now. He stops one of the young ladies and asks about his friend. The woman frowns and shakes her head. His friend is not coming. He almost laughs at that. Of course his friend is coming. She always comes, every day, except apparently today.

He starts to doze off in his chair. As he starts to fall off his chair, he feels caring hands catch him. He looks up with a smile to see another young lady who is not her. "Where is she?" he asks.

The woman shakes her head in sadness, "She's not coming. You know that."

The man frowns. "She must have had to help someone else today," he said. "She's always doing that, so loving. But she comes every day. She'll come tomorrow."

The woman who is not her mutters something the man cannot hear. She looks sad. "Don't be sad," he tells her. "When she comes, I'm sure she can cheer you up, too." That just makes the girl look sadder.

"Come on, let's go to bed," the polite young lady who is not her says.

The man wants to wait, knows she must be coming, but he is quite tired as well. "If she comes after I've gone to bed, will you tell her where I've gone?" The woman nods and the man smiles. "I don't know why she didn't come today. She comes every day. I'm sure she'll come tomorrow. She comes every day." Except today.

Independent

2011-08-04T19:01:00.002-05:00

I am strong and confident and I take shit from no one. I stand up for myself and what I know is right or true. I don't need anyone telling me how to think or act or what to do. I am independent and I am proud.
I cannot be completely alone. I must interact with others every day, but I can be very persuasive. And I never need to ask others for help. It is one of my greatest strengths that I can do anything on my own.
My days are exhausting and in the evening, I revel in the joy of spending a quiet evening alone. I am independent and free. I don't need others to make me happy. I find joy in solitude and happiness. I don't need anyone to talk to. My own thoughts are enough to keep me company.
No one may ever know me, truly know me, but I am beyond comprehension anyway. I am brave and strong and anyone would count themselves lucky to be close to me, but that closeness would ruin the very thing worth admiring.
I wish that all could see my strength and passion, and yet none can because that would ruin it all.
I am independent and strong, and I don't need anyone. When the storms come, I turn to myself. When life is stressful, I seek my inner focus. There are no friends or family for me to worry myself with or mourn. The only troubles I encounter are my own, it is better that way.
There is nothing I can't handle and nothing I cannot bear. Sure, some nights are lonely and occasionally I might feel a little bit afraid, but these temporary moments are so small compared to the greatness of my inner strength. No one could possibly be as strong as me. No one could comfort me as I comfort myself.
When I cry, I just look in the mirror and tell myself to stop looking ridiculous. When something has me worried or scared, I just lock myself up in my room where no one can get me. I had a baseball bat just in case.
I always feel safe because I am my own greatest protector. I am independent; I don't need anyone ever. Everyone should feel this free.

National Pride

2011-07-04T11:37:00.003-05:00

I'm proud to be from [insert country name] because it is my home.
Of the countries in all the world, it's the only one I know.
All those other countries leave me trembling with fear.
Trying go figure out who they are, for that I do not care.
I know that all the others are so much worse than mine,
So no need to do anymore than make sure my land shines.
We might be all one world, and it might include all the rest,
but deep within my heart and soul I know that mine's the best.
So why would I reach out to them, when I can see what's true?
Reaching their hands back to me is something they'd never do.
I'm proud to be from [insert country name] because from where I live,
I'm safe and strong, and to other countries, there's never a need to give.

My Room

2011-07-04T01:06:00.003-05:00

I sit in my room, on my bed by the window, and the war wages on. The fighting in the streets, the shouts and the cries, somehow don't touch me in my room. I can look down and see the men, and some women, too. I can hear the booms and crackles and shots. If I crack the window, I can smell the smoke. Untouched I sit in my room, and I wait and I pray, as the war is fought around me.

I have no real agenda, no motivation. The conflict leaves me untouched; my complacency is my safety. I'm not sure I even understand what it's all about, up in my tiny little room. My parents seem afraid, but why should they be? It is not our battle.

They say a great evil is rising. Some say it is the one side, some say it is the other. In my room, with the door shut and the windows barred now, there is no reason to decide who is right and who is wrong. They cannot touch me here. I hear the noise, but it does not come near me. I know there is fighting, but I am safe.

My bed is soft and comforting. If I lay still long enough, the war seems to fade. I drift off to sleep and dream of days brightened by the sun instead of by the explosion of bombs, days when smoke did not fill the air and it was safe to go outside. It seems so long ago. Still, I can sleep, and wake up again the next day, and I have no reason to complain.

Many have fled now. My parents seem to be considering going as well, but this is my home. I have known no where else but this room. Even before I was confined to it, I didn't go out that much, not really. In spite of the sights and sounds around me, I feel safe here, protected. No one would dare touch me here. They are so absorbed in their own conflict, they probably don't even know I am here.

More remain than we had thought. My parents have let some in, though I don't know why. My room is still my own, and always will be. I have decided that even if my family leaves, I will stay. I will not give up what is mine due to a battle that is not mine. This is my room, and I know I am safe here. I know I am safe.

The fighting gets closer, but I will no flee nor be afraid. I even open the windows some days for what little breeze there is, though there is far too much smoke for me to keep them open long. There is so much smoke now. Most days, I just keep a light by my bedside and read. My parents speak very little and still seem more afraid than they should be. I know this will pass, I feel like I have already seen it.

Some may think I am in denial, or just naive. I still say the fighting will not touch us here. We are nothing to those who care for whatever their own agenda may be. We are not even pawns, and we certainly are not kings, so we are of no value. My room has sturdy walls and that alone would keep me safe, but my lack of fear and lack of caring is a stronger wall still. I am nothing to anyone, but only exist in my room. And because of that, I will live on, no matter how long the war may wage.

In my room, I live.

If I Said Yes

2011-07-04T00:59:00.002-05:00

If I said yes, where would I be? In a neat little house, part of a neat little row, in a happy, quiet neighborhood.

If I said yes, I would be with you, happy and unaware of anything else. I would have no other grand plans or schemes, and no great ambitions. Just having you would be enough.

If I said yes, I would have a family. I would have loved ones who depended on me. I would spend the evenings with you, with them. We would sit or play and smile. There would be peace.

If I said yes, life would be simple, not without any trouble, but without trouble I couldn't bear. Patience and kindness would work through it all. I know you would be there.

If I said yes, you would give me the world. All you have to offer, you offered to me. All I could take from you, you would give. I would have your love and devotion. I know your words would be true, and you would love me until breath had left you and you could love me no more.

If I said yes.

If I said yes, all this and more, and none of what I have.

If I said yes, no more longing, but for you; no more passions, but for you; no more living, but for you. And you for me.

If I said yes.

I said no.

Unfair

2011-02-15T18:49:00.002-06:00

"Don't cry."

The softness of her voice and the violence of the fit of coughing that followed so closely after her words just made me want to cry even more. She was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, and the sight of her just lying there in the hospital bed was more than I could stand. What made it even worse was that I was the one who had killed her.

I hadn't even been legally drunk, but it was enough, and combined with the ice, it meant for disaster. I had barely even realized what was happening until it was too late. I walked away with a few bruises and she didn't walk away at all. The doctors hadn't even been sure if she would wake up from her coma, and while her parents were getting ready to fly back from half way around the world to be with her, I was all she had.

Her name is Anna. I had never met her before that terrible night when I ruined her life and future, but I knew from the first moment they let peek in through her window that I loved her. This wasn't just a love of guilt or confusion or drunkenness. I was quite sober by this point and the police had questioned me thoroughly enough to establish there was no fault as far as the law was concerned. Somehow, I saw this girl, and I knew that we could be something great together, if only I hadn't killed her.

She woke up before her parents arrived, a miracle the doctors said, but the beauty of that moment was not savored for long. They waited until mom and dad were there to give the devastating news: Anna was going to die. It would be a slow death and not too painful as far as such deaths go, but it was inevitable. There was too much internal damage, and nothing anyone could do to fix it.

I knew Anna's parents hated me, but for some reason, they still let me spend time with her. I apologized so many times I ran out of ways to say I was sorry, but Anna never blamed me. She just said, "I forgive you" and that was all. She even was willing to talk to me, which made my heart beat even faster and my own pain even greater. Perhaps what I had felt at first was just a passion, but as we talked long into the night, I discovered this girl was perfect.

I asked her at first what I could do, if there was anyone else she needed to contact or any last things she needed to take care of. No, there was no one who had not already been told, and the only task she needed to complete was the writing of her will. I could barely stand it when she said that, but she was the strong one, the one that told me not to be afraid. "I've led a good life," she said, even though she was only 23. "But I never really knew what I wanted to do with it anyway."

She was a music major. She had a beautiful singing voice, I was told, well, before I took that from her. And she could play the violin as well, or at least, used to play. She was never good enough to make a living on it, though, she confided. "Might end up being all for the best," she mused, and I begged her not to say that.

What made her say she led a good life was really all the volunteer work she had done. When her parents angrily told me about it all, it almost made me think that she couldn't die after all, for she must be an angel. I couldn't understand how fate could be so cruel to take such a wonderful person like this out of the world, but then I realized it wasn't fate who had done it, but me. I had made life unfair.

The days passed. Friends of Anna's came to visit her, to say goodbye, or to linger on until the end. A group of children she had led in a choir came, tears filling their eyes. She didn't tell them not to cry, she let them, but assured them she would be going to a better place. Yet, through all those who came and went or didn't went, I was there. Not often in the room. It was strange to most everyone that Anna would let me in there at all, but I stayed at the hospital. I used up all my vacation at work and a little extra besides. I had to be there. I had killed this girl, this girl I had now fallen in love with, and I had to be there until the end.

The coughing finally stopped and I saw there were tears in Anna's eyes instead of in my own. "I know I try to be brave," she said almost in a whisper. "But I'm scared, too. Deep down, I know it will be okay, I know I don't have to be afraid, but not so deep down, I'm terrified."

She reached her hand out and I took it, and then I blurted the most ridiculous and inappropriate thing I had ever said. "Marry me."

There was silence and then, "Andrew, I'll be gone in a few days. I can never give you anything."

I nodded. I knew that. I wasn't after anything. I wouldn't even get her beautiful violin or anything else she had owned. That would be too cruel and that was not what I was after. I loved this girl, and years from now, when the world was still mourning her passing, I wanted to be able to say that I had been married to her, if only for a day.

"I don't care," was all I said. "I love you, and it kills me that I did this to you."

She only smiled and squeezed my hand with a strength I could not have imagined she could possess. "I love you, too," she whispered. "No one else could ever understand it, but I do. And yes, even if it is the very last thing I do, I will marry you."

When we called the preacher, he thought he was coming to bring comfort, and was shocked and confused when informed we wanted him to bring us joy in Anna's final days, or perhaps even hours.

Her parents didn't want this to happen, I knew, but they could not argue. They wanted to do everything Anna wanted, no matter how crazy or foolish it might seem. Her true friends were much the same.

And so we were married. There was no great ceremony, no grand dinner or dancing or other wedding night festivities. There was just the paster, her parents, a few friends, Anna, and, inexplicably, me, right there in the middle of it all. I fed her jell-o in lieu of cake and even that she could barely manage. She couldn't really sign the marriage certificate either, but it was good enough for me, and the feeble kiss she was able to give me was the most wonderful touch I had ever felt.

I did stay with her all that night, until she fell asleep, and I was so weary myself, I could hardly keep my eyes open. I drifted off with my hand still touching hers.

When I woke up the next morning, I knew something was wrong. Anna wasn't dead, not yet, but she wasn't moving either. I had barely noticed this when a doctor and three nurses came rushing into the room. "What's going on?" I needed to know.

"You have to leave," one of the nurses said.

"But, that's my wife," I countered without even thinking about it.

Another of the nurses sneered. "We know all about that," she jeered.

It hurt more than any pain I had felt so far, and I realized that they didn't realize why I had done this. I wanted to explain, but I couldn't not to them, not...

"She's slipped into a coma again," the doctor told me in a much gentler voice than his assistants. "Please, you have to go. And tell her parents what's happening."

What's happening. I didn't even know what was happening. I loved this girl, but I had found her too late, I had found her after I had already killed her.

I told her parents who immediately turned away from me in anger and tears. And so the hours passed and I waited alone. And waited and waited and waited.

It was nearly midnight before I finally saw the doctor again coming too slowly towards the waiting room. Anna's parents jumped up and rushed at him and I stepped forward as well. The doctor looked like he was about to explode in tears and he looked at her parents and just said, "She's better."

Her mother started bawling while her husband soothed her. Seeing that they thought he was using a euphemism, the doctor quickly smiled and reached out to them, "No, no," he insisted. "She's alive and she's better. I don't know how it's possible, but she's healing, or at least enough that we can fix the rest. She's not going to die."

He turned and looked directly at me and gave me a look of triumph I had never seen on a doctor's face before. "Your wife is going to live."

My wife is going to live.

My wife... My wife... oh my...

Unusual

2011-01-15T15:50:00.002-06:00

I don't know when I first realized that I was different from everyone else, but I remember a time when I didn't feel different, so I must not have been this way forever. I just don't know what to do about it. My parents would be disappointed if they knew the things I think about. My older sister already seems to suspect. I can tell from the way she looks at me. I'm not a fool. I'm just as smart as everyone else here. I just view things in a different light, or, like, in light at all. I wonder if there is anyone else in this place like me.

From a young age I was taught to conform, to be like everyone else. Normalcy was, well, normal. I should read the same books to others read, practice the same drills, adhere to the same philosophies. We are all after the same thing, after all: a world where we can survive and the unworthy are doomed to die.

My sister always seemed to revel in it all. She cherished the idea that she might have some control to make the whole world like our own piece of it. She wanted to bring our practices to the masses, if she could. Of course, it made no sense for everyone to know the things we did, for if they did, there would be little use for us in the end.

It's just strange, I mean, it's normal for everyone else, but for me, it's strange. I don't know why I don't feel drawn to death the way everyone else does, but somehow, for whatever reason, I see beauty in life. I try to hide my feelings as best as I can. I fear that if anyone ever knew what I was thinking, I would be turned away, and once I am turned away, I fear they may use the very things I've been learning about against me. I know the others aren't afraid to die, but I am. I'm not ready for that yet. I feel like there is something missing, something I'm missing, something we're all missing, and I want to discover what it is.

The enemy. So often, I wonder if the enemy has what I'm looking for. I know its blasphemous to even think it, to even contemplate that some part of what we do might be wrong. After all, we work for the greater good, for a higher good. We want a world of peace and happiness. It's just that to us, that peace and happiness is death and loneliness. But why do those words seem so bad to me? They are glory and great joy. That's what I've always been told. But somewhere along the way I stopped believing. Somewhere, I started to think that it was wrong.

It's the most natural thing in the world: death. And I've always been told that darkness is our friend. It makes so much sense in my mind, and yet my heart can't quite seem to believe it. Something is off, and I'm afraid to ask if anyone else has felt this way before. What if they haven't?

But why should I think I'm so special? Why should I think I'm so unique? I've always been average. Average at the mental assessments, average in the physical tests, average in every way. Maybe that's why I'm making up this alternate way of thinking about things, because I'm just not as good at this way as others. I'm not as good as my friends and I'm not as good as my sister. Sure, there are plenty who are worse than me. That's what average means after all. But those closest to me always seem to be better. Is it because I've started to view things differently, or have I started to view things differently because of it?

I wish there were someone I could talk to, but it's hard when you value loneliness and introversion. Sure, my friends are great, but sometimes I wish friends were someone you could actually talk to, and not just the group of people you choose to spar and mediate with. When my friends meditate, they look like they're getting something out of it. They seem truly lost in the darkness, like we all should be. Me, I just keep longing for the light. I wish it would stop.

Am I really so unusual? Am I really the only one of my kind who has ever felt this way? I wonder if anyone has ever gone over to the light side before, over to the enemy. I've never heard of such a thing, but of course, why would they tell me? Why should they tell me? Secrets are the key to success. We do what we're told, we trust in the darkness, and the power of death shall be ours. It's they way it is. It's the best way. Why does it feel so wrong to me?

I want to live, I don't want to die, and I don't want to kill anyone else either. I dread the day they send me out on my first mission. All the others seem so excited, especially my sister. She has her first mission next week. She can't wait to show what she can do, how her control over death is nearing completion. Me on the other hand, I'd rather not even know of this power. I'd rather be unaware than understand it all. I want to be like the ones she's going after, but I don't want to die.

I can't have it both ways. I hate it. I know the way things really are. That's part of being one of my people. I can't be both happy and free. I can't have both life and the power of death. If I am alive, I will be killed by those who have the power. If I have the power, I can hardly be alive. All those around me think death is life, but I think death is just death, and it's terrible. What is wrong with me?

Maybe someday before it is my time, it will all make sense. I hope it does. I hope I can be absorbed into the darkness like my sister, that I can take the joy in it that she does before the end. But at the same time, I don't want to be like that. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I see a better way, a way of happiness and peace in which the enemy does not have to die. But that is impossible. Our words can never persuade them. We have no choice but to kill. At least that's what my people have always told me.

I should not question. I should just accept what I am. I should be proud to know the truth when others in the world cannot. That's what they tell me, but it just feels wrong. I want friends I can talk to, not just prepare with. I want parents who love me. Love, now that's a strange word. I only know it because they tell us it is what makes the enemy weak. Of all the things we have ever studied in school, love seems to be the one thing I understand when my classmates do not, and the one thing I must be ashamed of understanding.

It just seems so wonderful, having someone who puts your needs above their own, and you wanting to do the same for them. Always looking out for someone else. If I had someone I could do that for, and know they were doing the same for me, I think I might be okay with death, but death by its very nature forbids such a thing.

I just want out of this life. I don't want the escape of death that everyone else so longs for. I want out of this life so that I can really live. I don't know how to explain what I mean, or if its even possible, but somehow, I know we're doing it all wrong. And there's no one I can talk to about it. No one here seems to have ever felt this way before.

Unless of course... Maybe, well, what if I'm not so unusual? What if others feel the exact same things I do, and are fighting so hard to hide it, just like me. They tell us conformity is true freedom, but I think freedom is freedom, and conformity is conformity. I want to think for myself and I want to enjoy my life, not the darkness and not the killing and dying. I want to feel truly free and happy. Maybe there are others like me, and if there are how can I find them? How can I find out whether or not I am really so unusual?

There's no more time to think about it now. I have to go spar with my friends. I hate it, but it's my duty, and if I don't show up, someone will know something is wrong and they will come after me. I hate our society. I hate perfection. I hate not being able to enjoy any of it and being told that I am enjoying it all. I hate being so unusual. Maybe I do want to be like our enemies. Maybe that is the only way. I envy our enemies. I want to be like them. Must that be so unusual?

Arrogant, ctd

2011-01-08T15:07:00.002-06:00

"What an arrogant little prick."
"Yeah, no kidding."
Brittany sighed and shook her head. "What did Brady do now?" she asked.
Tiffany stared at her dumbfounded. "He has a girlfriend!"
Brittany almost laughed. "So what?" she asked.
Bridget just stared for a moment and then said, "No pretentious little brat like that has any right to a girlfriend."
"Yeah," Tiffany chimed in, "who does he think he is?"
"Well, who is she?" Brittany asked.
"I don't know," Bridge said. "Some nobody, I'm sure."
"Well isn't that good, that he would date a 'nobody'?"
"Oh my gosh, Britt, you don't get it at all!" Tiffany exclaimed. "Everything he does, he just does to get attention."
"You can't possibly know that," Brittany countered. And to herself though, "if that is his goal he sure is accomplishing it with you two."
...
"Well, he broke up with her," Bridget exclaimed.
"What an ass!" Tiffany chimed in.
"But I thought he was an ass for dating her to begin with," Brittany pointed out.
"Oh, Britt," Bridget sighed. This seemed to be her favorite exclamation lately. "Don't you see? Once he's dating her, he better keep dating her. He's just throwing her away like garbage."
"Like garbage," Tiffany agreed.
"He probably just wanted some 'experience' for some new song he's writing," Bridget pointed out.
"Yeah, probably," Tiffany agreed.
...
"OMG!" Tiffany exclaimed as she walked over to join the other two at lunch.
"What?!" Bridget asked, wide eyed.
"He's coming here!" Tiffany practically shouted.
Bridget stood as Tiffany sat. "No way!" she exclaimed.
Tiffany nodded, a frown on her face. "Uh huh," she confirmed. "And guess who wants to go see him."
Bridget and Brittany just looked at her, and Tiffany answered their blank stares with, "My kid sister!"
Brittany thought Bridget was going to shoot out the ceiling at that.
"And I have to go with her," Tiffany went on. "And if I have to go, so do the two of you!"
"What? No way!" Bridget protested.
Tiffany tossed the tickets on the table. "It's already done," she said. "If you have any compassion for me at all, you're going to sit through this hell right along with me."
Brittany picked up her ticket and looked at it. It looked like any other concert ticket.
...
When they arrived at the stadium where the concert was being held, Brittany was amazed at the number of young girls present. Most of them appeared to be about 12. "I assumed this guy was at least a real musician," she muttered.
"Well, you assumed wrong," Bridget told her, smirking at Tiffany, who was trying to restrain her kid sister, who was jumping up and down trying to see the empty stage better. "This is just the crowd he appeals to. He doesn't even try to do any serious work. He's a talentless slob."
Brittany didn't know what to expect of this concert, but she certainly didn't expect what actually happened.
Her first shock was seeing who walked onto the stage. At first, she thought it was just some lackey checking the equipment, but then the crowd of young girls went wild and a band walked in behind him. "He's just a kid," she whispered in surprise. In deed, he was likely no older than the youngest girl in the stadium, unless there happened to be a baby present, and even then he might not be much older. Tiffany would have guessed he was about 11, though if he looked young for his age, she supposed he could be as old as 14. He was ordinary looking, but cute in a childish way. She couldn't believe anyone that young had a girlfriend, or could be as malicious as her two friends seemed to think him to be. She looked over at them and they were just scowling, no surprised look on their faces at all. They clearly knew he was just a child and called him an ass anyway.
The second shock came when he opened his mouth. The lyrics were awful, truly portraying the attitude of a young child who thought he knew something about the world and didn't, but man could that boy sing. He was better than any child musician she had ever heard before. She didn't quite get why he was so popular though. Yes, he could sing, but he was singing to 12-year-olds. Maybe that was why he was so popular... these girls didn't care what he was saying. She wondered, though, if they appreciated the fact that he was good, or just that he was a celebrity. He became a celebrity by singing well, she was sure, but seemed to keep his celebrity by singing terrible songs and just looking good on stage, and even that second part he barely managed to do.
At the end of the show, Brittany could see some of her friends' dislike for this boy, but ultimately he was just a boy, and she felt they were being remarkably cruel. She noticed that the child was signing autographs so she went over to talk to him.

He seemed very surprised to see a grown woman walking up to him. He smirked a little. "Hey, gramma," he said.
She was appalled at that, but continued anyway. "You have a wonderful voice," she said.
He smirked and looked at his finger nails as if he were admiring them. "Thanks, lady," he said.
"But you clearly don't know anything about life," she added.
That seemed to catch him surprisingly off guard, as if no one had told him that before, and suddenly Brittany wondered where his parents were. He looked shocked for a moment and then shouted, "Security!"
"It's okay," Brittany quickly assured him, holding her hands up in surrender. "I'm going. I just hope you mature as an artist and a person."
Walking away, she realized she had been much more harsh than she intended, but at the same time, she wasn't sorry.
...
For weeks after that Bridget and Tiffany kept complaining about the kid and then, slowly, they stopped. Brittany forgot all about him, until 5 years later, she was driving in her car when she heard a song that reminded her of the boy's concert. She listened until the end, and then heard the DJ laugh about the mistake in playing that terrible song and how he wasn't even sure how it got into their records, while confirming that it was indeed a song by the child performer, from 4 years ago.
...
"What ever happened to that Brady kid?" Brittany asked at lunch that day.
Tiffany and Bridget stared at her like they had no idea what she was talking about.
"You know," Brittany prodded them, "that singer kid you two used to hate so much."
Slowly, the light seemed to dawn on them. "Oh yeah," Bridget exclaimed.
"What a prick," Tiffany added.
"Whatever happened to him?" Brittany asked.
Bridget shrugged. "I don't know and I don't care," she said.
"I guess he grew up," Tiffany said.
"Why don't you look it up," Bridget suggested with a smirk that seemed to say, "Why would you ever do that?"
Brittany just smiled. "Maybe I will," she said.
...
When she looked it up, what she found almost broke her heart. Just a few months after the concert at which she had seen him, apparently he had been found to be in possession of illegal drugs. He was only 12; he shouldn't have even known what it was he had, but apparently, he still knew how to use it. He was at first given just a slap on the wrist, but a few months after that, he was found driving a car in possession of more drugs. He was still only 12. He had also convinced some of his fans to give him their jewelry as "gifts", which essentially amounted to stealing in the eyes of most everyone. He ended up going to a "special school" for boys and had to drop his career entirely. This was where Brittany found that his father had died when he was 5 and his mother seemed to barely care about disciple at all, as long as he could make her money. But when he started costing her money, she left and no one seemed to know where she went.
The whole thing seemed to be just one tragedy after another, up until the part where he got out of his "special school" just a couple weeks ago, now talentless and forgotten.
"I guess he did grow up," Brittany muttered as she wiped a tear from her eye.
She thought about trying to find out more, maybe if she could write him a letter or something, but what would it matter? He wouldn't remember her and he wouldn't care about some random letter.
"I guess that's that," she said to herself, and she went back to work.
...
Brady sat alone in his room doing his homework while he listened to the radio. His heart almost skipped a beat when he heard one of his old songs come on. But at the end, the DJ laughed and said what a terrible mistake that kid had been. Brady frowned and looked back at his piece of paper. He remembered something from long ago... some woman who had told him he was good, but needed to grow up. Well, he sure had grown up now. He wondered if he was still any good at singing, but he doubted it. He wouldn't even join choir at his new school, but mostly because choir seemed to be for losers.
Brady sighed and went back to his algebra. He had had his 15 minutes of fame, he would probably never get it back again. He wasn't even sure he wanted it, considering what it had brought him.
Still the next morning in the shower, he found himself singing, not one of his own songs (which he knew now really were crap), but a song by a real performer. He smiled a little when he got out. "I could make it again," he thought. "But why would anyone even care." And so, that was that.

Arrogant

2010-12-30T19:49:00.003-06:00

"He's such a prick."
"Yeah, no kidding, who does he think he is anyway?"
"Hey girls, what are you talking about?"
Brittany's two friends looked up at her with scowls as she approached with her lunch. Fortunately for her, the scowls were not directed at her.
"The next 'big thing'," Bridget said using air quotes and rolling her eyes.
"Have you heard about this guy Brady Rodgers?" Tiffany asked.
Brittany shook her head of straight, long blonde hair as she sat down and picked up her fork.
"He's oh so famous," Bridget exclaimed, leaning forward and batting her eyelashes in mock admiration, letting her red curls fall over her green eyes.
Brittany just shrugged and forked a piece of broccoli from her salad.
"He was on some reality show the half of the world without a brain watches," dark-haired Tiffany explained more helpfully. "Apparently he just launched his debut album and is breaking sales records for a new artist."
"He shouldn't even count as a new artist," Bridget protested as she picked at he French fries. "Technically, he's been performing for like six months now."
"Oh aren't you the fan," Tiffany teased as she took a bit of a raw carrot, and then in the midst of her chewing, "You been following him since day one, huh?"
"Eww, no, gross," Bridget insisted, perhaps a bit too quickly.
Brittany smiled just a little at that. "Oh come on," she said calmly, "he can't be that bad."
"Oh yes he is!" the other two insisted in unison.
...

A Bad Day

2010-12-18T21:46:00.004-06:00

This morning I took a cold shower before eating my least favorite breakfast of apple cinnamon pop-tarts. I rode the bus to work and noticed a stain on my suit. When I was getting off the bus, the latch on my brief case broke and all my papers fell out. When I got to work, my boss called me into his office to tell me he could not give me a Christmas bonus this year. The computer program I needed to enter data wouldn't work, so I had to find another computer to use. I ate lunch alone in the cafeteria. I spilled milk on my pants and had to go into the bathroom to clean it up as best as I could. When I went back to work, people kept interrupting me. I had to work late to make up for the time I lost. I missed the bus I planned to take and had to walk an extra half mile to catch another one. When I got home, I noticed that a hinge on my door was coming loose. I had to look up what bus would take me to the store so I could buy a screwdriver so I could fix the hinge on my door. After I got back from the store, I reheated leftovers for dinner, and tried to watch TV, but the reception from my antenna was bad and I could barely see the picture. After I finished eating, I decided to read a rather dry book about succeeding in an office instead. I had no pets to feed, no wife to talk to, and no children to play with. I had no hot water, limited options for entertainment, and my fridge was not fully stocked. I went to bed under a pile of blankets because I don't turn my heater on above 60 degrees. I fell asleep thinking about how I would wake up the next day and do this all over again. There was a smile on my face.

Two months ago, I had no shower, or any water, at all. I did not know what I was going to eat for breakfast each day, or if I would be able to eat at all. I had no money to pay for bus fair, and no job I would take the bus to. I carried all my belongings in a backpack, and business papers were not among them. I had no income, yet alone thoughts of a Christmas bonus. I owned no computer and barely even knew how to use one. Lunch was the same as breakfast: uncertain. I did not have the option of sitting in a peaceful, quite corner of a heated cafeteria, enjoying my hot lunch. I had no suit to get stained or to spill milk on. I had no co-workers to stop by and ask me how I was doing and offer to help. I did not have the option to stay late at the office, finishing up work and enjoying the warmth of the building. I did not have money to pay for any bus ride home, all I could do was wander for miles and miles, or try to find a warm place to sleep for the night. Most nights, I could find dinner at a soup kitchen, but there was no door of my own to fix, no TV of my own to watch, and no books to read. My bed was a box spring mattress with one blanket the nights I slept at the shelter, and a park bench with a blanket of newspapers the nights I did not. Every night, I went to bed with a frown and a tear, dreading to wake up the next day and do it all over again. Every day back then was a bad day. Today, on the other hand, was a very, very good day.

All I Want

2010-12-15T21:43:00.002-06:00

People run after so many things in life: love, career, fitness. Me, all I want is pancakes: light, buttery, fluffy, and covered in syrup. Most scoff at me when I tell them that my goal in life is to have pancakes for breakfast at least four days a week, but you try to make the effort to do that yourself and see who's scoffing then. For the past year, I have never once gone more than two days without eating pancakes.

Pancakes remind me of home, and of my mommy. She makes the best buttermilk pancakes. She would put real blueberries in them, too. I usually settle for blueberry syrup, which isn't nearly as good, but still gets the job done. Most days I do make the pancakes myself, just like my mommy taught me, but going to a breakfast place like Village Inn or Denny's is acceptable, as long as you go for breakfast time.

When I eat pancakes, I feel years younger. I don't care about boys or shopping. I just care about being happy, and pancakes make me happy. Other people tell me it's stupid. They tease me a lot. But I don't really care because I have my pancakes. Yum!

Maybe someday, I'll "grow up." Maybe I'll have a great job where I make a real difference in society and make lots of money. Maybe I'll find a nice boy and fall in love and raise a family of my own. One thing I know for sure: if I ever have a daughter, I will teach her how to make pancakes, and all my children will always have their stomachs full of light, fluffy, buttery goodness, covered in maple syrup. Sure, I'll teach them to read and write and do arithmetic, too, but above all, I want them to be as happy as I am right now, and for that, there's really only one thing they'll need: pancakes.

The Other Side

2010-12-10T21:22:00.002-06:00

When I look at her, it breaks my heart, knowing how much I care for her and how little she cares for me. She appreciates me, I know. Well, maybe not me, but at at least all I have to give her. What makes me saddest of all was that she might have even grown to love me, had she not met the one she truly loves.

I am not a young man, but that doesn't mean I no longer have feelings. We speak very little of our past, but I was in love, truly in love, once upon a time. I know what it feels like and looks like and sounds like. What I have for her is different, and what she has for me is no where close. My first and only true love was taken from me two decades ago, but that's a tale for another time.

Oh, if only she could have us both! I know in my heart that they would be happy together, at least for a little while, but she did marry me for my money after all. Would she grow to despise him if he took all this away from her and gave her only his heart? Would it be so wrong if I kept her on like this and turned a blind eye to whatever affairs may come? Though it is not love we have for one another, it is still a kind of comfort, at least for me. Am I so selfish to not want to part with her?

And yet, somehow, deep inside, I do care for her and know she cannot be happy like this. Do I care enough to let her free? I'm lonely. She was a companion to me in my loneliness for a short while, and though her touch comforts me still, I know she feels distant and lost. Is the only way to not lose her entirely to give her up?

Surely I can find another like her. To me, she is not unique. To him, she is. I know what love is: a person who might seem ordinary to anyone else is extraordinary to you. That's the way they see one another. I can sense their passion, no matter how hard they try to hide it. I am not a fool, though they think me to be.

Am I just being selfish? If I know all this, why does it still pain me so to let her go? I should be glad to be rid of her, to let her go on her way, to the one who truly loves her, to have for myself another chance to find a love like the fleeting love I once felt. Why do I hesitate? Am I so self-serving?

I always thought myself a good man, a kind man, a noble man. I treat others fairly both in business and in my personal life. Perhaps I am just angry, angry that she said the vows without really meaning them. Well, she meant them at the time, but I have no doubt that she wishes now that she had never said them. And, now, knowing their hearts to be so pure, it is only I who have the power to let them be together.

Is that what this is about? Is it all about the power? Is it only my need to feel vital that is keeping them apart? I would like to think better of myself, but maybe it is so. I'd like to tell myself that I keep them apart for their own good, that no matter how much they love each other now, it will only lead to pain. I know that pain all too well, but death took my love from me and nothing else. I could never imagine leaving one I truly loved of my own free will.

If I could say I truly loved her, that could be my reason to holding on so dearly. But on the other hand, if I truly loved her, wouldn't I want her to be with the one who could truly make her happy?

All this talk of selfishness and love and pity and poverty is meaningless. All that really matters is that I do what I know to be right. And that is the problem; I do not know what to be right. I have never broken any vow that I can think of. Even if I break my vows to her out of regard for her own well-being, does that make it right?

I am a soul tormented. They see love, and I see it so clearly in them. Yet which is greater, the love they feel to one another, or the promise she and I made? If I were ready to depart this world, I would gladly free her of her bondage, but I am not ready. I am healthy and strong, no matter what others may think, and I know I have decades ahead of me still. Would she be willing to wait that long for him? Would he wait that long for her?

They could never have children if I make her wait like that. She would be far too old by the time they could wed. I can't think about that anyway. It is far too morbid for me to think of what might happen after I die. I need to focus on now, on my own life, and on hers. She is my wife, after all, I am to put her needs above my own. Does that mean breaking my vows for her sake? I do not know.

It would all be so simple if I weren't such an honorable man, or she weren't such an honorable lady, or he weren't so loyal. There would be no trouble if we did not care about causing trouble. But we all care too much, and that's the heart of it all.

Every night I pray that I might see a way to do what is right and best for us all, but I do not think it is possible. Perhaps the only way is for me to disappear. Perhaps not die, I still am not ready for that, but to appear to be dead. A trip from which I never return... how long would she wait for me before she would feel it was okay to move on. Would she wait forever? Would I be doing more harm than good?

I am tired of thinking about it. I am not as young as I used to be, and I need to go to bed. Maybe if I die tonight, it would be a blessing after all. I do not want it, but it would be better for her. Is this what a marriage not built on love is always like?

On Love

2010-12-05T19:50:00.004-06:00

She married him when she was 27, having given up on any hope of finding a love of her own. He was kind and gentle and, above all else, the richest man ever to show an interest in her. She figured that if she couldn't have love, money was the next best thing. He wasn't even that old, only 30 years her senior. All this was before she met me.

How I wish he had brought her home first. How I wish I had been allowed to see her before their return from their honeymoon. If only he hadn't been so insistent, perhaps we would have found one another. But even then, would she have left all he could give her in order to be with me? Considering how I have to still the look in her eyes that says she contemplates doing that very thing even now, I think the answer must be yes.

How no one could have loved her before, I will never understand. She is the most beautiful, pure-hearted woman I have ever met. Of course, I am around fellow wait staff and the rich and snobby all day, but still. Her smile melts my heart, and thinking that she cannot be mine boils my blood.

I knew the moment I saw her that I would love her, even before I knew her name. At first I had hoped beyond hope that she was some secret, long-lost daughter; though I knew the master to be marrying a woman half his age, I could not but hope that this was not she. As I grew to knew her and saw the looks of hopeful despair she gave me, I hated her for a moment. I hated her for marrying him before we had a chance to meet. I hated her for meeting me at all. I too had all but given up on love, but at least I had not done something so foolish as marrying one I knew I could never love, only for his money.

But my anger lasted only briefly. Her husband was away often on business, and with me as the head tender of the house, we had many opportunities to speak. She was an artist of sorts, and I noticed how much more intense her paintings became as we spent time together. Before, she had been mediocre at best. As we talked and laughed and cried together, I saw the emotions come out in her work. We never confessed to our feelings for one another, at least not for the longest time. In word, we were only friends, for the longest time.

The day I saw the painting was when that changed. Not just another painting, THE painting. It was the most beautiful but tragic thing I had ever seen. She must not have realized I was standing there watching her strokes because when I said, "That's beautiful," she turned in surprise. Her brush stroke swept across the canvas, destroying a piece of the beauty I had been admiring. She burst into tears, but I could tell she was not angry at me. "It can never be beautiful," she sobbed. I could think of nothing to do but step forward and place my hand on her shoulder and whisper, "It has always been beautiful, and always will be." She knew I was no longer talking about her painting.

After that day, things got very awkward. It was more than just words we exchanged in that moment, but kisses as well. She had spun around and kissed me passionately, forgetting both her painting and her husband. After what seemed both forever and not nearly long enough, I pushed her away. Before I could think of what to say, she said it for me. "We can't do this."

And so it stood. "We can't do this." She was married. Legally bound to a man who ought to be her father. Who ought to be walking her down the aisle and giving her away to me. In another lifetime, in a more just world... What broke my heart was that I made her even sadder than she had ever been before. If she had been able to live her whole life truly believing it was the best life she could have, at least she could have been happy, but now she knew there was something better.

What could I do? I contemplated leaving, but she would still know I existed. I contemplated killing myself, but I feared she would only follow me into the darkness. I contemplated killing her husband, but I was too noble to steal her from him, yet alone to steal his life. The best idea I could come up with was to find some way to make him leave her, but why would he ever do that? She was perfect. And besides, I could never do that on my own; I would need her help, and separating her from her husband was the one thing I could never bring myself to discuss with her, either before or after our moment.

In time, we forced ourselves to forget our encounter, or at least to push it to the back of our minds. In time, we grew cordial again, went back to being friends. Her husband never even noticed, probably never even realized we were as friendly as we were. It would have been so easy to have a true affair, to embrace again, and do more. He would never know the difference, I suspected. The only fear was that another of the staff would tell him, but clearly no one had told him what had happened thus far, and I had my own private quarters, being head of the household keeping. We would be completely alone and no one would know.

It would be so easy, and yet it would be wrong. We both knew it. Both of us were duty bound. Both were honorable and true. The very values that held us together and drew us to one another were the only thing keeping us apart. Neither of us would ever truly love ourselves or the other if we gave up on those principals, but as long as we held to them, we could never truly love each other either.

So my best bet seemed to be to make her stop loving me. I still spoke to her, was friendly and kind, so that she would not realized anything was wrong, but I said little things that I knew she would not like, tiny things that I knew her well enough to see would get on her nerves. I also left many things unsaid. No matter how beautiful her paintings were, I never commented on them again.

I don't know if it worked, but she seems to have lost at least some interest. She no longer asks me the hard, deep questions, no longer wants to know more about my past or my family. She doesn't smile as brightly at me, though the smile is not completely lost. I see now that maybe I could find another, one who is not attached to someone, especially the man I serve.

I sometimes wish I served a less faithful and noble man. If he would just cheat on her it would be so easy. I have thought before of hiring a new maid, beautiful and young, just to tempt him. But we already have other attractive women in the house, though none as beautiful as she. Of course, if he weren't so faithful and good, she never would have consented to marry him and we still would never have met. Why couldn't she plan ahead, marry a scoundrel just in case she were still to meet the man of her dreams? Simple. As I said before, our values drew us together and our values keep us apart. She would not marry and I would not serve any less than the dutiful husband and man that prevents us from being together.

I've said all there is to say. My thoughts only run in circles now. She knows I love her, no matter how convincing my act may be, and I know she still loves me, no matter how convincing hers. The only thing to do is to suffer unless, perhaps by some miracle, fate may bring us together still. I lost faith before, as did she, but I refuse to give up entirely again. Will love find a way? I cannot say. All I can say on love is that if you haven't found it yet, don't settle for less. You never know what may happen, and if you settle, fate can be a cruel mistress.

Magic

2010-12-04T16:07:00.002-06:00

When I was a young girl, thousands of years ago, I used to believe in magic. I used to look at the world around me in awe and wonder, all the beautiful things, and think there must be some force behind them. I used to look at the stars and wonder what they could possibly be but magic dust. But science ruined all that for me. Everything has an explanation, and everything is known. Even the most common simple people of the day know that stars aren't magic. There is no magic anywhere.

I used to live next door to a boy who I thought was magical. He was beautiful and pure like no other child I had ever known. Somewhere in the back of my head, I thought he was going to be the one to save the world. He died when he was 17.

When I was young, I used to dream of a perfect world, where no one suffered or died. I've seen too many in agony and had to bury too many of my friends to believe that's even possible.

The life I've led has been an agony, not a blessing, not magical. I just want to end it, but I can't. There is no magic in that. If I had known this was all the "magic" there was, I never would have taken it. To live "happily ever after" is a lie. It's all just "ever after" for me. Ever after my prince was taken from me. Ever after the toad stayed a toad. Ever after the pumpkin was baked into a pie and the sword from the stone rusted away into nothingness. I've seen more of that "magic" than I ever wish to see. I would have never taken this deal if I had known this was the way it would be.

Some might say I've lived to see wonders some could never dream of. When I was a hundred or even two hundred years old, I might have felt that way, but not now. All the things that were wonders then are simple things now. Humanity progresses, but there is no wonder in it. It's just natural. What would be magical would be if we didn't keep learning new things, and yet still make the same old mistakes.

Some people think that there were dragons around when I was born. There were never dragons, and even if there had been, they would not have been magical. I can create a small lizard that breaths out fire myself. I have all the time in the world to figure it out. It does not impress me.

Music, dance, art, they are all meaningless. Magical to some, but not to me. I understand why you think of them as you do. I used to, too, once upon a time. Those days are long gone. Buried a hundred times, as I myself should have been. If anyone ever offers you magic, turn them away. Run as fast as you can. Dive off the nearest cliff if you have to. Magic is worthless. It's something everyone thinks they want, but can never truly have.

I've had my magic, and I'm done with it. I just want it all to be done. I don't even have any wisdom to impart. My years of study have been in vane. I've learned nothing that shouldn't already be obvious. Everything is known already. There is no magic.

Famous

2010-11-27T22:49:00.003-06:00

I will never be famous. But it is my pleasure to help others rise to fame. They are smart, talented, funny, kind; and I help them get the love and respect they deserve. I am a publicist, and a good one too. I help them rise to be the stars they should be. They are the stars and they deserve it. They deserve it. They deserve it...

Oh crap, who am I kidding? I know the kinds of people from whom I work. Everything you ever thought to be wrong with stars? Yeah, it's true. Every day I deal with the most inept people it's ever been my displeasure to know. Sure, they have to be talented at something to make it this far, but for most, their talent is just being load and obnoxious. That's how they get heard. Or maybe daddy was a star and bought their stardom with his billions of dollars. Whatever the case may be, these people are the most ungrateful, selfish, and stupid people I have ever met.

Sure, maybe once upon a time, there as real talent in the world. I can't imagine that people like Frank Sinatra or John Wayne ever acted like this. Maybe there are even some "good" people out there today who have risen to stardom. I can think of dozens that must be better than the lot I've put in with. At least, I hope for the sake of all the other publicists that they are.

I guess my problem is that I am too good at what I do. None of my clients really deserve stardom. In all honesty, that's probably why they come to me to begin with. I can make just about anyone into a star, except myself. I just don't have the quality it takes to stand in the starlight. Call it talent or class or bitchiness. Whatever it is, I don't have it, but they do, and I know how to draw it out so much that no one even notices what's really there... which at best is nothing and at worst is a wretched human being.

Maybe I'm just jaded, watching all these other undeserving slobs rise to power while I work my butt of covering up their mistakes. Every single one I work for is not even a tenth of the angel they seem to be. Maybe all the others that don't work under me really are the same... if their publicists are even half as good as I am.

I don't know what makes them all such whiny brats. The upbringing, I guess. Most of them have celebrity parents, or at least friends. They weaseled their way into stardom. Not a one of them earned it. Not like me. I earned this miserable job all by myself.

I used to think I would do great things with my life. Before I got this job, I thought this would be doing "great things with my life." Boy was I wrong. I hate getting up every morning, but I get paid well and there is no one better than me. I can take any negative comment made by one of my nitwits and spin it into something positive. That is, if a negative comment from them even gets out to begin with. Any dumb or insensitive thing one of them says to the public is a failure on my part. I tolerate very few failures. In fact, if you consider how often the idiots open their mouths and how often something inappropriate actually gets out, my success rate is about 99.999%.

In all fairness though, they really aren't that bad. They have good hearts, after all. They don't complain too much when I encourage them to publicly support charities. Some of them are even willing to show up at the charity events themselves. Mostly it's because they want the publicity (which, let's be honest, is obviously why I have them do it to begin with), but at least it's a start. Maybe there is hope after all.

I should have been the famous one, though, if only I were good at something other than making other people look good. If I had just one other talent, I could be my own publicist and be the most well-liked celebrity in the world. I wouldn't need a sane person to tell me not to say this or do that. I have common sense, so I would already know these things. Sometimes I just want to scream at my clients, "why don't you already know these things?"

But that's not fair. Maybe they really don't. Maybe that's just what happens when you come from a celebrity home. Sigh. Oh well. One of them is screaming for me so I'd better go. I wonder what mess they need me to help them out of this time.

Gone

2010-11-14T12:37:00.003-06:00

Nothing ever seems to last.

When I was young, I used to love the snow. Every white flake that fell was the hope of a day off school, a day spent making snowmen and snow angels and sipping hot cocoa in front of the fake fireplace. When I was really young, I didn't even realize it was fake.

Now that I am grown, I dread the winter. I hate having to shovel the snow from my driveway, and I hate it even more when the snow melts and leaves pools of mud and sludge behind. Most of all, though, I had that now when I try to sit in front of the fake fireplace sipping hot cocoa, I'm reminded of how things used to be.

Nothing ever lasts. I know I was happy once, I just can't remember how everything got so messed up. When I was young, I had my parents and my brother and sister to keep me company. When I was in high school, I had boyfriends from time to time and close girlfriends that would chat with me for hours about nothing and everything. What happened to all those people?

My family lives a thousand miles away now, and my best friend from high school is dead. All my other friends are scattered. I haven't talked to them in years. Most people would just make new friends, but I've seen enough people come and go that I don't know what the point is. All that's left behind is a pool of sludge.

Everything was so beautiful to me one, well, many times. The first time I went to daycare, the first time I had a pet, the first time I kissed a boy, the first time I fell in love. The thing about the first time is that it can never happen again. All those moments were beautiful, like the first drop of snow falling from the heavens, but they can't last forever. The moments build up over time but then slowly, one by one, they melt away.

The problem with kids today is they don't even seem to savor the moments they have. They don't realize that when they turn into me one day, those moments will be all they have. I know the moments cause me pain, but I wouldn't even know what beauty was, or be able to occasionally hope to find it again, if I didn't have those moments.

Last week we had the first big snowfall of the year and a little boy, maybe 13 or 14 years old, came to my door asking if he could shovel my driveway. I just stared at him for a moment and then said, "Absolutely not. That's my job. You go and play."

I'm sure he thought I was being very rude, just continuing on my status as the grumpy old woman who lives down the road. He didn't understand that I was doing him a favor. Worrying and fretting about cleaning things up is the work of adults. Children need to enjoy life while they still can because they don't realize it, but all too soon it will be melted away. Gone.

I'm not really a depressed person. I had a nice house and I'm on the third pet dog of my lifetime. I take pleasure in the work I do, and I have nice acquaintances, and even go on a date from time to time, but nothing will ever be like things used to be. I've graduated from snowflakes to mud puddles. They aren't pretty, but they're what I've got and I learn to deal with them and make the most of things. Maybe someday those will be gone too, and what will take their place? Nothing? Is that really better than mud? I don't think so. Even mud can be sculpted into something, if not beautiful, then at least interesting. You just have to try hard enough, and do what you can before it's gone.

Simple

2010-08-20T18:18:00.002-05:00

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess who lived in a castle in a far off land. She was engaged to be married to a handsome prince, but a simple servant in the castle was secretly madly in love with her. One day, just weeks before the wedding, the servant could take it no more. He went to the apothecary and bought some poison for killing weeds, but slipped it into the prince's drink intending to kill the prince instead. As the prince and princess prepared to eat dinner together that night, the servant waited expectantly, anxious to sweep in and comfort the princess in the moment of sorrow. What he did not count on, however, was the prince offering his own drink to the princess. The servant's eyes widened in horror as he watched the prince offer the goblet across the table to his beloved. Just as her lips were about to touch its gold brim, the servant jumped out from his hiding place and shouted at them to halt. The prince turned in surprise, pulling the cup away from the lips of his betrothed. The servant hastily explained that he had seen a cloaked man sneaking out of the cellar where the wine was stored and feared that what the princess was about to drink was poisoned. The prince eyed the servant suspiciously as he told this tale and then asked why the servant come sooner to warn the prince and princess, or wait for someone to come get the wine from the cellar and warn them, if this was the case? Thinking quickly, the servant explained that he followed the cloaked man out to the castle gates and did not realize what he might have done until he watched him exit the castle and slip a small vial into his pocket. The prince still seemed skeptical, but the princess was in tears at this point, wondering how much of the wine may have been contaminated. The prince suggested that they test the wine out on the very servant who had warned them about it. The servant was about to protest when the princess shook her head and suggested they try it out on some mice instead. When they did so, much to the servant's surprise, no harm came to the mice. The prince laughed at the servant, drained the rest of the wine glass, and walked away. The princess, still too shaken to eat, thanked the servant meekly, and wandered back to her chambers for the night. The next morning, a great commotion spread about the castle. The prince who was set to marry the princess in just a few weeks was found dead in his chambers with a butcher's knife in his chest. The princess immediately jumped upon the story of the cloaked figure the servant had told, and insisted that whoever had tried to poison the wine had failed and resorted to a more gruesome method instead. The servant upheld his story, and a search was made throughout all the land for a bandit fitting the description the servant had given. The princess, meanwhile, wailed in grief night and day until one day, a suspect was found and brought before her father, the king. The suspect was very suspicious looking and everyone was sure he had done the terrible deed, especially the servant who had made up the whole thing. And so, the evildoer was locked away in the dungeon to await an execution three days hence. The princess, in her grief, went down to speak to the man who she believed had murdered her beloved, begging to know why he had done what he did, and only receiving back insistence that he hadn't. She cried and pleaded with him long into the night, and he could think of no way to respond but to explain to her exactly what he was and what he did and what he had been doing the night her beloved was murdered. Slowly, she came to believe him, whether because she was exhausted or because his words actually made sense, but by morning, she was convinced this man was guilty of nothing. She even went so far as to insist that her father set him free, but he told her it would look very unkingly of him to do such a thing after the man had been convicted. The servant heard of this and sought out the princess to try to comfort her, but she would have none of it. The servant, after all, was the one who had convinced her that this terrible man needed to die. And then it dawned on her, the servant had lied. The man in the dungeon was not the one who had killed her prince, the servant standing before her had. She was so shocked she spouted the accusation at him immediately and he was so shocked he jumped upon her and began to strangle her. Just as she started to lose consciousness, he suddenly realized what he was doing to the woman he loved. He released her and fled, but did not get far before the palace guards caught him. The next day, the one before the other man was to be killed, the servant stood trial before the king. The princess, who had recovered from the lack of oxygen the servant had forced upon her the day before, was even more insistent now that she had been with the false criminal, and so the king decided to overturn his previous verdict as long as there was another man to hang in the former murderer's place. And so it came to pass that the servant was marched down to the dungeon to take the place of the man he had accused just days ago. As they traded places, the former killer leaned in and whispered something in the servants ear. The servant lit up in rage and jumped toward the mysterious man, but the man just laughed to himself as the guards pulled the servant away. The servant sat alone in his cell awaiting the next day, which would be his last, and knowing he could do nothing. In spite of what the man he had made up just whispered to him, there was nothing he could do now, except... The servant called for the guard and put in a final request: a glass of wine, the very specific wine that the prince and princess had for dinner the night the prince was murdered. The guard laughed in his face. The guard just laughed at him. Prisoners would not be granted such a request ever. Besides, that wine was being held by the princess specifically in honor of her fallen prince. The servant, knowing he was defeated, resigned himself to the gallows, where he was hanged and died the very next day. The princess, meanwhile, spent more and more time with the mystery man who had been cleared of her prince's murder. In time, she came to love this man even more than she had loved her prince, until, finally, she decided she must marry this man, simple as he was, and be happy with him forever. And so they were wed, and on their wedding night, the princess revealed a very special bottle of wine: the wine she had not yet tasted with her former, now dead, beloved. She poured a glass for her new husband and one for herself, and after offering a short and sincere toast, drank from her glass and immediately fell dead. Her new husband allowed himself only a moment of true emotion, and then immediately threw his wine glass against the wall and called for the guards. His show of distress was so convincing, no one suspected him at all, for he was a master deceiver, prepared now to take over the kingdom. He was so convincing, the servant himself had not even realized until the end that he really had seen this devious man in the castle the day the prince fell dead. The servant had inadvertently stopped this monster of a man for a while by adding just the right poison needed to counter act the poison this man himself had added to the wine, but the villain knew he would not have to wait forever to get what he wanted. And it, in fact, was even better this way, for not only did he get to murder the prince and princess as he had intended, but he also had the kingdom for himself. It was a good day to be him, and all the better because a foolish servant had fallen for a beautiful princess and tried to murder the man she once loved.

What Love Is

2010-08-20T17:57:00.002-05:00

I knew he loved me; deep in my heart I just knew it. He was always kind and affectionate and thought of me above himself. That's why it hurt so bad when he did what he did.

I never even saw it coming, but in retrospect, I should have. Leading up to it, he had seemed a little less happy and a little more distant than usual. But considering how happy and open he usually is, it just seemed a little more, well, frankly, a little more normal. I don't want to sound mean-spirited, but sometimes he was just a little too much for me. I was almost glad he had backed off a little, until I discovered the real reason for it.

I hated her from the moment I saw her. Even apart from the fact that I first saw her in his arms, I could tell she was a vial creature. At first, I was sure that she had tricked him somehow. There is no way he would knowingly do what I saw them doing. But after a few minutes I knew there could be no doubt. He immediately let go of her, pushed her aside even, once he realized I was there watching, but it was too late, the damage was done.

I suppose in some sense, I never truly loved him, but he was so good to me. How could I let that go? If he hadn't betrayed me like he did, we would have been together forever.

-------------

I loved her so much, some days so badly it physically hurt, but what hurt most of all was knowing that she would never love me. She tried, put on a good show, but every time she tried to say the words I could tell they were forced and awkward. The problem was, I was good to her, probably the best man she'd ever been with, and she couldn't bring herself to let that go over a silly little thing like not actually loving me.

The problem really was, she was too good herself. Even if she had realized there were plenty of other good men out there, she had committed to being with me, and would never betray that unless something terrible happened. And so, something terrible had to happen.

Natalie was a coworker. She was single, decently smart, and attractive enough to make it believable. At first, she wanted nothing to do with it, said I should just talk to the woman I loved, make her understand my feelings and what I knew of hers, or just give her more time for the love to bloom, but I knew these things would never work. Somehow, I just knew. Eventually, I convinced Natalie to go along with my plan.

When she saw us, she was more hurt than she had probably ever been in her life, but I knew it was for her own good. I saw men all around me every day that I knew she would love more than me. Heck, I had even introduced her to a few of them myself, but I knew she was too good to leave me for someone I had caused her to meet, until now at least. Now the whole world was open to her. I loved her so much, and I had wished with all my heart for such a long time that she would love me, but since she can't, I want her to find someone she can love.

-------------

When I saw the tears in her eyes, I knew she really loved him, even if he didn't think she did, even if she didn't know it herself. No one can cry like that and not feel something for the person they're crying over. If she really didn't love him, part of her would be relieved at this gracious out, but maybe she really doesn't get it.

Our show was so obvious I was almost surprised she even fell for it. I've been held by men who cared for me and held by men who don't, but James not only wasn't attracted to me, it was so obvious he was attracted to someone else, someone he knew was watching. He kept glancing at her, but she didn't even notice. He had such a hard time kissing me, I wasn't even sure he could go through with it.

Even though they love each other and should be together, they'll get over it, they'll both find someone else. But why should they? The problem they have is that they don't feel love the same way. They both love each other, but one is a uproar of passion and one is a gentle whisper. Their problem is that the shout was drowning out the whisper to point where the whisper itself didn't even know it was there.

I want to say something, now that I've seen, now that I really understand, but I promised I wouldn't. Even as I look at James, I know he'd hate me if I did, and he still wouldn't realize just how much she loves him, because she doesn't even realize it herself. Maybe in time they'll come to really understand like only an outsider can. Maybe not.

I've played my part in this vial deed, and vial it has been. I never should have stepped onto this stage, but what's done is done. Maybe one day they'll understand what love really is, but for now, all I can hope for is that they'll be happier than they were before.

Faith

2010-07-17T15:15:00.000-05:00

I close my eyes and can't see anything, but somehow I know it's still there.

When I fall, I don't know if you'll catch me, but I know you'll help me get back up.

You've always believed in something, whether you admit it or not. Even if you say you don't believe in anything, that is your faith: faith that there is nothing more.
When you were little, you probably believed in Santa or the tooth fairy or the Easter bunny. Maybe you still do... maybe you still believe in the joy and anticipation and comfort those things bring, and maybe to you that makes them worth believing in, even if your brain tells you there is nothing there.

She used to believe, but then she stopped. It wasn't really a choice she made, it just happened. Now she'd like to choose to believe again, but she's not sure that she can.

Is God just a way to explain what we don't understand? Is God really that far beyond our grasp? Is He more than a concept or a dream or, for some, a nightmare?

He knows they exist. But how can they know of him?

"Now faith is being sure of what we hope for, and certain of what we do not see." (Hebrews 11:1)

If I'm not always sure, can I still have faith? What is faith if there isn't doubt to go up against it?

Though faith may be focused on what we cannot see, it need not, even should not, be without evidence. I believe because of what I have seen and heard and thought about and experienced. Evidence does not defeat faith. Faith loves evidence, but faith will never have proof, for then it becomes fact.

If you have been there for me every time in the past, does that mean you will be there for me in the future? My faith, based on the evidence, says you will, but that cannot be proven until the future has come and gone.

She does not know what faith is. She does not know what hope is. She does not know what love is. She fears she is alone.

Faith can be optimistic, pessimistic, realistic. Faith can be all you have, or faith can mean nothing at all. Faith can be pursued and strengthened, but not forced. Faith is sometimes logical and sometimes illogical. Sometimes it makes sense, and sometimes it doesn't. Faith is like life. Faith is life.

How would we be different if we didn't have faith? Would we make assumptions about the future at all?

What do you believe?

In Another Life

2010-06-08T18:36:00.003-05:00

Weary and tired, the man treks home from another long day of work.
He forces a smile as his daughter runs to meet him, and holds the look of contentment for his wife standing in the doorway.
He opens the door to his dark and lonely apartment, flips on the light switch, and tosses his keys onto the table.
The smell of meatloaf fills the air. His wife is a decent cook, even when she cooks things that aren't his favorites. They are trying to instill a love of good home cooking in their daughter. Otherwise, he's not even sure why she still enjoys making this dish.
He goes to the freezer and pulls out one of the dozen TV dinners stored there. He glances at it and notices it is meatloaf. Not one of his favorites, he's not even sure why he bought. Maybe it was because she used to love to make it.
They sit at the table together, the happy little family. His wife looks exhausted. He wonders if she's as worn out as she is. Considering how hard she works all day, he knows it isn't fair to think this, but he can't help but think that she isn't as pretty as she used to be.
He turns on the TV and sits at the couch with his dinner and a beer in hand. He is just in time for a women's shampoo commercial. The woman on the screen has long, flowing strands of gold running down her back, not unlike the woman he could have married, if he had chosen to.
They read their daughter a story, tuck her in, and collapse into their own bed exhausted. After a few seconds, he turns to his wife, but realizes she is already snoring, sound asleep. It's okay, he thinks, I wasn't really in the mood tonight anyway.
He crawls into bed alone after reading a bit of Newsweek. He looks around the bedroom for a moment before flicking off the light. It's so empty, and so dull.
As he drifts off to sleep, he realizes he has no one to talk to anymore. All he really wants is someone with whom to share his hopes and dreams, but he no longer has any such a person, and most of his hopes and dreams are gone by now anyway.
Another day dawns, bright and cheery, more cheery than it has a right to.
The man meets his wife and daughter for breakfast. His smile is a little more genuine now as the smell of eggs and bacon reach his nose, and his wife has managed to clean herself up rather nicely, too. Still, he remembers with some nostalgia how they used to clean themselves up together.
The man pours himself a bowl of cereal, flicks on the morning news and opens the morning newspaper. He eats his cheerios and sips his coffee. That was one thing she never liked was coffee. If nothing else, at least he gets to drink it as much as he wants now, which most days is probably more than he should.
After breakfast and quick kisses for his wife and daughter, he rushes off to work, trying to make himself eager for another hard day at the office. At least the pay is good. He needs that to support his family.
He gets in his car and drives to work. At least he can find some enjoyment in what he does for a living, which he'd better considering how little he gets paid, but that's the trade off you have to make. At least he doesn't have a wife and family he needs to support on his marginal paycheck.
His boss greets him grumpily and tells him to get to work.
His boss greets him with an empty smile. The man knows that the man he takes orders from is lonely, too.
The morning is long, lunch is brief, and the afternoon is even longer. As usual, no one seems to appreciate him, and he simply submits to what his superiors tell him to do. He can't wait to get home, even that makes him feel less empty than he does here.
He wishes he could spend more time at work than he already does. At least then he wouldn't be alone. Even though he doesn't get along perfectly with everyone he works with, having someone there to argue with is better than having no one at all.
Weary and tired, the man treks home from another long day of work.
He forces a smile as his daughter runs to meet him, and holds the look of contentment for his wife standing in the doorway.
He opens the door to his dark and lonely apartment, flips on the light switch, and tosses his keys onto the table.
They sit and eat. It's lasagna this time. The mans mood brightens. Lasagna is one of his favorites, even if his wife isn't as good at making it as his mother used to be.
He decides to order in Chinese tonight and watch a movie. It's a western, staring Clint Eastwood, one of his favorites.
After dinner, his daughter wants to play a game with him. He is content enough as he sits there playing Memory with her. Even if he doesn't feel as close to his wife as he used to, at least he gets to help with the raising of this beautiful little girl.
As he watches the television, memories come rushing back and he can barely keep a tear from falling down his face. He didn't realize it before, but this was the very first western he ever watched with her. She was never as big of a fan of westerns as he was, but she feigned a deep interest in this one, just to make him happy. How he missed her.
It's not until it's bedtime for his daughter that he realizes that it's a Friday night. When is the last time he's done something special with his wife on a Friday night?
It's not until the movie is over that he realizes it's a Friday night. When is the last time he's gone out on a Friday night?
"Honey," he says after they close the door on the daughter drifting off to sleep. "We should do something tonight."
He really feels like he should do something tonight.
"Oh don't be silly," she says. "We have to say and watch our daughter."
There's no reason why he shouldn't go out tonight. He stands up and turns off the TV.
"We don't have to go out," he protests. "We could just stay here, have a quiet little evening."
He walks to the closet and gets his jacket.
She sighs and rubs her forehead. "I'm sorry, sweetie," she says, "but I'm much too tired for one of your 'quiet little evenings' tonight. Maybe another time."
He grabs his keys and opens the front door.
He frowns. "You're always too tired," he says. "I just want to spend more time with you, to be close again."
He locks the door behind him.
She frowns and shakes her head. "I know," she says, "just not tonight. Why don't you call up some of your friends and see if they'll meet you at that old bar you used to go to if you really want to do something."
He walks down the steps to the lot where he keeps his jeep.
Strangely hurt and upset, he says a bit louder than intended, "Well maybe I will." With that he marches off to the garage and jumps into the minivan.
And then he speeds away.
He's not sure what draws him to the bar he chooses, maybe it's because this is where they first met.
He walks in and looks around, not much has changed in the year or so since he was last here.
He does see one thing different, though, a pretty blonde girl sitting in a corner booth.
He stares for a while until she looks up at him. Embarrassed, he has no choice but to walk over.
"I'm sorry," he says as he approaches, "you just looked so much like a woman I once knew, from a distance."
"I'm sorry," he says as he approaches, "you look strangely like my wife from a distance."
She smiles up at him. "Why don't you have a seat and tell me about her," she suggests.
"So are you married?" she asks rather bluntly.
"So you're married," she says, stating the obvious.
Nervous he glances around at the other bar patrons and says, "No."
Starting to feel uncomfortable he toys with his wedding band and says, "Yes. Seven years. We have a four year old daughter."
"So this woman you thought I was, you were never... serious with her?"
"So why are you hear talking to a woman who looks like your wife instead of home with your wife and child?"
He's feeling rather embarrassed now, but strangely moved to be open.
"I was serious with her," he confesses. "I could have married her, but I didn't."
"I just don't feel like it's home there anymore."
"Why not?"
"I didn't have enough to offer her. I was scared. I wasn't ready for that big of a commitment."
"She doesn't offer me what I want anymore. I'm scared we're losing each other. It all just seems like such a big commitment."
He pauses, still not sure why he feels compelled to be so open for his woman he just sat down across from.
"Well, it is a big commitment," she replied matter-of-factly.
He says nothing.
"Why are you here?" she asks.
"I don't know," he answers, honestly.
"What are you looking for?" she pushes.
He looks up into her eyes. They are even the same color as those of the woman he once loved so dearly and now he fears he has lost forever. He says, "Something better than what I have."
She glances up at the ceiling as if thinking for a few seconds and then looks back at him and asks, "Something better, or just something different?"
The question takes him off guard, and he doesn't know what to say.
"Are you happy with your family, or at least with your little girl?" she asks.
"Are you happy with your work, what you do when you aren't mopping around bars?" she asks.
"Yes," he answers, a bit shocked at the question, but also more surprised at his answer than he should have been.
"Then why do you want something different?" she asked.
He stopped to think for a moment. "I want more," he said quietly, ashamed and feeling greedy.
She shrugged and then smiled sweetly. "Who doesn't?" she asked.
And then it hit him: this woman was exactly what he had been looking for.
Not sure how to proceed, he just sat there staring at her until she said, "Let me buy you a drink."
Hit by the sudden realization that this could be his second chance, he blurted, "Let me buy you a drink."
"O-okay," he stammered nervously.
"Fine," she said with a confident nod.
"Rum and coke," he said.
"Rum and coke," she said.
"That's my favorite drink."
She came back with the drinks and sat down.
He came back with the drinks and sat down.
"What do you think is going to happen tonight?" she asked.
"Nothing is going to happen," he said quickly. "I'm married."
He couldn't help but smile. "I have no idea," he said.
"You're only sitting here at all because I reminded you of her," she said.
"And you're not her," he agreed sadly with her unspoken thought.
"Do you wish I was?" she asked.
He took a sip of his drink and then said, "I don't know."
"Yes, of course you do," she replied, and she took a sip of her own drink, waiting for his response.
"I used to love her so much," he confessed, "but now it's just a memory."
She leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. "You shouldn't be here right now," she said as if she understood it all. "You should be with her."
"I can always be with her," he protested quickly, surprising himself. "Well, at least in the same room with her. That's about all being with her means anymore."
"I can never be with her," he protested quickly, disheartening himself. "I blew my one chance. Plus, I don't even know where she is anymore."
"I think you could fix that if you really wanted to," she noted.
"What are you saying?" he protested, starting to feel angry. "You don't even know me."
She shrugged. "I think I know enough," she said.
He felt his frustration rising now. He had thought this woman had really understood, but now she pretended to understand too much. "I think I should go now," he said.
"No, not yet," she protested. "Not quite yet." And she reached across the table and touched his arm.
With that one touch, all his anger faded. It was just what her touch used to feel like, so long ago.
"After you leave here tonight," she said, "what are you going to do?"
"I don't know," he answered, awestruck at her beauty all over again.
"Here," she said, as she slid around the booth to sit next to him, "I think I can help you figure it out."
And she kissed him softly on the cheek.
And she kissed him long and hard on the lips.
Started even by the brief contact, he jumped up and stared at her in horror.
Started but pleased by the passion of her embrace, he slowly pulled away.
He realized in an instant that this woman was not her.
"I need to get home to my wife," he exclaimed.
"I need to find her," he said almost in a whisper.
The woman smiled. "I know," she said.
The man rushed home.
He practically ran into his bedroom.
He ran to his address book.
She was still awake.
Her old number was still in it.
How he hoped that she would talk to him.
How he hoped that she would answer the phone.
"Hello, baby," he said.
He waited forever as the phone rang and then a tired but familiar voice said, "Hello?"
She looked up at him and he saw tears in her eyes.
"It's me," he said simply, hoping she would know.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
"Why are you calling me?" she asked.
"It doesn't matter," he said. "I need to be with you now."
"I've been such a fool all these years," he said. "Can I see you tonight?"
She started to cry.
She opened her arms and got up from the bed. "I'm so sorry I've been so cranky and distant," she sobbed.
"I'm sorry," she said, "but I don't think that's going to work."
"No, no," he protested. "I've taken you for granted." He welcomed her into his embrace.
"Why not?" he asked.
She cried against his shoulder. "I love you," she sobbed.
"It's been eight years," she said, sounding tired. "What made you decide to call me up again now?"
"I love you, too," he whispered into her ear.
"I realized I never stopped loving you," he replied.
She pulled back just enough to bring her lips up to his.
There was silence on the other end of the line for what seemed like an eternity.
They stayed wrapped in that warm embrace for what may have seemed an eternity.
Finally, he said, "I want to get back what we used to have."
She was quiet for another moment and then she said softly, "I'd like that, too."
"Can we meet tomorrow then?" he asked. "Around ten, for coffee?"
"Come on, he said, pulling on her hand, let's go to bed and in the morning I can make you a nice fresh pot of coffee."
She sighed heavily.
She practically giggled.
"You know I hate coffee."
"I guess we're just going to have to get to know each other all over again," he said.
She thought for a moment and then said softly, "Okay."
And with a click, he turned out the lights, smiled, and went to bed with his wife.
And with a click, he hung up the phone, smiled, and went to bed dreaming of the woman who might still one day be his wife.

Terrible Person

2010-05-28T16:51:00.003-05:00

"What makes you a terrible person?" Ashley wondered as she looked out the window at the shiny red car pulling out of the driveway for the last time.
For the last eighteen years, she had simply tolerated him, and now that she had as good as told him so, and had to watch in agony as he left her, she wondered if maybe she had come to love him after all.
"I never wanted to be a part of his life to begin with," she though, "it just happened... because it had to. He needed me so much more than I ever needed him."
Ashley sighed and turned away. He was gone now, likely never to return, no matter what she might say to him to try to make him come back. Did she even want him to come back? All these years, she had been just waiting, longing to be free, and now she was. This was what she wanted, to be alone. But then why did it hurt more now than it ever had when he was around?
They had come such a long way in eighteen years. At the beginning he had just been a frustration. She had never been able to understand what he was trying to tell her and instead tried to focus on how cute he was, something she never found endearing to begin with. By the end, they could actually have intelligent conversations, and it was almost as if he really did have something to offer her. But then she went and ruined it all by kicking him out. Well, not kicking him out exactly, but by telling him that she was ready to see him go, to move on to another stage of her life.
It was the worst thing she could have ever said, even if it was the truth. She really was a terrible person. How could you tell someone you had devoted eighteen years of your life to at least pretending to love that you were ready to see them go? Only the lowest of the low would say such a thing.
She allowed another tear to slide down her face as she collapsed onto the couch and stared at the flat screen TV he had bought her for her birthday earlier this year. She had wondered at the time if the gift was underhanded, indicating that she cared more about watching the TV than she did about spending time with him, but it didn't take long for her to decide that wasn't the case. As frustrating as he could be, there wasn't a cruel bone in his body. Quite surprising considering she seemed to be made of nothing but cruelty, but maybe things just happen that way sometimes, fate puts together a cruel person and a kind person so the cruel could learn from the kind.
But what had she learned from him? Absolutely nothing. All these years, he had loved her unconditionally, and what had she done? Tolerated him. She had made time for him, sure. Any relationship requires that you spend at least some time with the other person in it. But really, she had put minimal effort into the whole thing. It was no wonder he had seemed as anxious to go as she had thought she was to see him leave.
He had always loved her, but for the past few years, it hadn't been the same as before. He had started to grow distant, spending late nights out with his friends, forcing her to wait up wondering if he was going to get drunk and force her to bail him out of jail. But she always ended up giving up on the worrying. He was a good man. He would never do something crazy and inappropriate. He was faithful to his ideals, whatever they were and wherever he had gotten them.
She let out a sigh and closed her eyes as she remembered the first time they had come face to face. She was worn out, exhausted, and she had to admit, he had been beautiful. At first, she had no regrets, but that soon changed after she was reminded that he was a total pain, needing constant attention and reassurances of her affection. "Why hadn't I just given him up when she had the chance?" she often wondered late at night when he would scream at her for no apparent reason. But yet, occasionally, there were times, like right now, when she almost thought she loved him...
Her reminiscing was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. She gasped as she opened her eyes. For once, she didn't mind the silence was being broken. The truth washed over her as she realized that she hoped with all her being that it would be him standing at the door.
She jumped up, ran to the window, and when she saw his car returned to the driveway a smile washed over her face. She didn't take the time to comprehend that love really was the thing filling her with joy. She rushed to the door and threw it open.
There he was, standing there with his long legs, broad shoulders, and perfect brown eyes. He opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say. "I... I..." he stuttered.
She let the tears flow freely now. There was no point in hiding it any longer. She had been denying it to herself for eighteen years, but it was useless now. She loved him. She knew it, and she wanted him to know it. "I'm so sorry, baby," she blurted out. "I love you, I really do. I take it all back. Come here, just give me a hug."
He seemed to hesitate at first, but then he allowed himself a tiny smile and a lonely tear trickled down his face. He let himself be swept up into her open arms. "I love you, too, Mom," he whispered, just loud enough that she could hear him.
And so Ashley held her son, forgetting everything else, even trying to forget what a terrible person she had been, letting the realization that the last eighteen years had truly been wonderful and not a waste sweep over her.

Crash

2010-04-12T18:24:00.003-05:00

He had heard it said that when you are about to die, your life flashes before your eyes. Fragments of your past come before you and dance like long forgotten dreams, taunting you as you remember all the things you will miss about living. He saw and felt none of this, however. All he saw was the future: the mountain straight ahead of him. All he felt was alone, or at least, almost alone.

He could feel the heat from the fire rising closer to him. He wasn't sure what would make the plane's engine just explode like that, but it apparently was possible. He wondered if anyone who found the wreckage would be able to figure it out. With a sigh he simply shook his head. If he had learned one thing from this whole ordeal, it was that things often did not make any sense.

He glanced over at the pilot seat, to the unconscious man sitting beside him. The passenger almost felt sorry for that man. "The one thing that all binds us together is death," he thought, "and this man will never get to experience what that really feels like. He will just open his eyes in a few moments and be somewhere else, and who knows if he will ever really understand what happened."

As for the passenger himself, he knew exactly what was about to happen, and was sure that the act of it happening would not make him forget. He stared ahead again, at the tree topped mountain which was even more rapidly approaching. He knew enough about airplanes that if he really wanted to, he might be able to make some attempt to save them, but he knew, deep in his heart, that all that would do was delay the inevitable. He was going to die no matter what he did, and not just sometime in the future, he was going to die today, in the next few moments.

The man did not want to waste those moments trying to save himself. He wanted to savor them, not by dwelling on the past or on what the future could have been, but on the present, on this very moment. It really was a beautiful view. He had been in airplanes many times before, but never had he felt so high and yet so low. He felt like he could reach out and touch the trees, and yet they seemed a million miles away.

"Oh well," he thought with a slight smile, "I'll be right in the thick of them soon enough," and he almost, almost laughed to himself.

As his smile continued to grow he closed his eyes, breathed in the smoke from the burning engine, which was strangely relaxing, and waited for what was to come. He was not afraid. He knew what was coming. After all, his entire life had led him to this moment, this beautiful, perfect, regret-free moment.

And now, the memories tried to come, but he blocked them out. He didn't want them to come. He had had his entire life to think about them. He didn't want to waste more time on them now. He folded his hands over his chest, let the rest of his body to go limp, and waited for the crash that he knew was to come any second.

On Target

2010-01-13T18:39:00.002-06:00

We work at the same store, in the same job of cashier, just lanes apart, and yet we are so different.

As for me, I do my job: nothing more and nothing less. I am the model employee. You, on the other hand, are something I hate. You are a dreamer.

I see you during the lulls in the crowds, sighing and staring up at the ceiling, seeming like you want to be somewhere else. Well, I want to be somewhere else too, but you don't see me just standing there thinking about it. I do my job. Sometimes you're so lost in your thoughts you don't even notice a customer standing there impatiently waiting to be rung up. It's a wonder you haven't been fired yet.

And it's a good thing you aren't fired. Barely managing to get a high school diploma and dropping out of community college after two weeks doesn't get a person very far. I don't even know what you think you'd do, but you think there is something else you'd rather be doing. How do you think that's even possible? How are you going to make a difference, change the world, do something exciting if you couldn't even stick around for community college. Sure, high school is enough for some people, but those people have no right to be dreamers.

Sometimes you even feel compelled to share your fantasies with me, as if I care. I guess I'm just a pretty face to look at while you drone on, because you can't possibly think I believe in you. Surely you can tell my smile is forced and notice when I wince in pain at the sound of your optimistic voice. Half the time I don't even know what the hell you're talking about, speaking of cures for this and hope for these people and preserving that. Why do you even bother? Someone might solve these problems or accomplish these feats, but I'd bet my life it isn't going to be you. No matter how much time you spend dreaming, you aren't going to spending any time becoming anything. In fact, the more time you spend dreaming, the less time you have to even do anything remotely related to accomplishing the things you say you are going to.

If I cared about you even remotely, I'd tell you to be more like me. Focused on the day to day and on doing your freaking job. Stop fooling yourself and just live with what's been given to you. If you could do more, fine, but you can't. You are incapable of being any more that a simple check out girl and a hopeless, senseless dreamer. If I cared enough, I would tell you these things, but I don't. The most I might ever do is tell you to leave me the heck alone.

I suppose I don't even tell you that because you're the closest thing I have to a friend, even though you do annoy the crap out of me. Even though I can't wait to go home every day and get away from you, I still don't want you to think I'm a bitch, which I'm sure you would if I told you what I really think, even though you're much too pure-minded to actually use such a word. If nothing else your day-dreaming ineptitude makes me look better. I'm sure you'll never get a raise. I've already gotten two in the seven years I've been working here.

Now don't get me wrong, I have a few dreams myself, but I don't clutter the work day with them, and I don't make them unattainable. Owning a pet that doesn't annoy the crap out of me: that's one of my dreams. Working at a higher class establishment than the crap hole that currently employees us, maybe something like a JC Penny, that's another dream, something I might actually accomplish if I work on my people skills a little. But come to think of it, it's not really worth it. You really don't have to be that polite to work these check out lines. People who come here are basically trash anyway. Maybe that's why they keep you on: you fit in with the crowds.

So go ahead, keep on dreaming, and see if I care. One day you'll realize what a fool you'll being. And when your poor little heart that longs for something more but can't get your brain to do anything about it finally gives way, I'll go to you're funeral and I'll laugh a sad laugh because in spite of all of this, I know that you could have at least a slightly better life than you do now if you'd just stop dreaming about a much better life that will never come to be.

Success

2010-01-04T18:26:00.002-06:00

Emilia blinked once, twice, and then a third time, just to make sure she was really seeing what she thought she was seeing. Once her little eyes and tiny five-year-old hands confirmed it to be true, she let out a squeal of happiness and her short, blond girls began to merrily bounce up and down. Her lips spread into a smile of glee and she clapped her palms together in joy. It may not have seemed like much to anyone else, but to this girl, to this blissful, mesmerized girl, it was her life's first major success.

"Mommie, mommie, come see," the little girl cried out, rushing to the desk where her light-haired mother sat, pouring over legal briefs. "Come see what I did."

"Not now sweetie," the woman responded, shooing her away with the pen she held in her left hand, not even bothering to glance away from her work. "Mommy is busy."

The small, round girl opened her mouth to protest, but stopped before any words could escape. Even for one so young, she knew when she wasn't wanted, and this particular little girl got this particular feeling around her mother all too often. She stuck out her lip in a pouty manner she knew her mother wouldn't see and turned and walked away.

"Just give mommy a few more minutes," the woman mumbled.

But her daughter was already gone, silvery tears sliding silently down her cheeks as she crept into her large but lonely bedroom. All the joy in the world meant nothing to this poor little rich girl if her mother didn't care to share it with her.

Riddle

2009-12-22T18:05:00.001-06:00

I am death. I am life.
I am everyone. I am no one.
I killed your parents, yet I gave them new life.
I am smart and funny and beautiful.
I am nothing more than a speck.
I am loved. I am hated.
I am my own worst enemy.
I know how to read, or at least how to listen.
I sleep, I eat, I live.
I will do more if I choose to.
I am of no accord, but I mean the world to someone.
I am never alone.
I am obvious.
I am who you think I am.

Crush

2009-12-22T17:57:00.001-06:00

I loved her, but it was forbidden.
Drink it up, or break it down.
The dove has a broken wing,
and my spirit is failing.
Pinned down with no where to turn,
I think of the one I long for.
Beaten and dejected,
I will have my revenge.
I will destroy them.
I thirst for it.
Never forget your first.
Don't even try to forget.
It tastes too sweet,
even if the pain is too bitter.
Drink it down, or break it up.
It was forbidden, and so I loved her.

Thirteen Squared

2009-12-13T14:25:00.003-06:00

One day two days ago, three thoughts popped into my head. For four years I had been working hard so that for the next five or six I could work even harder. Why was that? I remembered back when I was seven, life was so simple. My hardest decision was which of my eight dolls I should play with that day. I thought, that day, that I wanted that back. Nine months ago, I wasn't even thinking these things? What had happened? Even to go back ten years, back to when I was eleven, would be better than where I was now. Twelve more days. That's all it would take and I'd be done and moving on, but on to what? What happens on day number thirteen?

Those were my thoughts: feeling lost in the present, a memory and desire for the past, and uncertainty for the future.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and counted to twelve. I used to count to eleven, just because most people count to ten, but soon even that started to seem unoriginal to me, so that was why I increased it even more. I need those extra seconds, just like when I was nine years old and needed eight extra seconds to finish the races after the other kids. Maybe I didn't want to go back. Sure, I had plenty of dolls and toys back when I was seven, but what was I doing, really? Now that I think of it, even when I was only six years old, I wanted to go back, back to before I was five or even four. Back to a simpler time. There were only three things I needed back then, and really three things I need now: to love, to be loved, and to know what love is. I already have two of them. And maybe it is worth the rest of my life to find the final one.

Winning

2009-12-13T14:00:00.002-06:00

Whenever I win or lose at any kind of game or competition, I ask myself, "Why?" The answer when I win is almost always: "Because I cheated." When I lose, the answer is: "Because my opponent did a better job of cheating than I did."

I can do anything I want, unless someone tries to stop me. And no one ever tries to stop me until after they've already realized what I'm doing and by then it's too late. The only time I can be stopped is when someone who is already just like me is going up against me. I know what I want, and I take it. That's what winners, what cheaters do.

I will always be this way; I don't think I'll ever change. I used to think I was unique, but I have come to realize there are many like me. I've met them. The only time I really have fun, really see a challenge, is when I'm going up against one of them. This game we play, it has whole new rules. You can't win unless you cheat, but cheaters don't always win when there is more than one of them playing.

There is no room for ties or compromise. Someone has to come out on top, and more often than not, it's me. There are people who have given me a run for my money, though. I am not someone who can't be impressed. But every time I am beaten, I learn something, and I grow stronger than before. Each defeat makes me stronger, and as I grow stronger, I am defeated less often. One day, I will be invincible.

But what is invincible really? How do I know when I've reached supremacy. Because no one else can win against me? Perhaps I have just not found a worthy opponent. And if there is a worthy opponent out there, I want to find him, because if I defeat him, I am one step closer to being unstoppable and if he beats me, I am still one step closer.

I learn; I grow; I do whatever it takes. One day, I will rule this nation, and then, the world. And it all started as a game.

For Your Own Safety

2009-11-30T21:49:00.002-06:00

Words.
Written with you in mind.
They tell you to slow down, calm down, and be safe.
Be safe.
Isn't that the way to be?

They say rules were made to be broken.
Were bones made to be broken?
What about feelings?
Do you need help to keep your own self safe?

[Probably more to come... I was going to write more and lost my train of thought]

The Return

2009-11-27T13:10:00.003-06:00

He sat alone at the small, round, mahogany table in the corner of the bar. This particular table was usually reserved for any pair of gentlemen who wished the ogle the serving maidens in relative secrecy, but there was no ogling coming from it this night and as much as the town didn't seem to appreciate what this man and his companions had done for them, the bartender at least appreciated this man's pain enough to not ask him to move.

The man had come into town a few hours ago with four other companions, the only people in the world he had been close to over the past 15 years, but at this point, even they had left him. They had all come expecting a glorious and joyous return and instead they had been greeted by emptiness and the occasional guilt. They thought they had wanted greater companionship, but after the way things had gone, they all decided they wanted less. And so each man, friend, adventurer, whatever they had become over the past 15 years, went his own separate way to find his own forgotten place in which to seek what little solace he could find.

This man chose this bar, far less unchanged than the people he had once gathered with here to drink in celebration or anguish or just because they could. Only now, he was alone and forgotten at this corner table that was the same as it had been 15 years ago but which he had never even sat out until now. He had never wanted to be hidden until now.

He was playing with a thin layer of dust on the table when he heard footsteps coming his way. He looked up to see a girl walking his way, he would have guessed her to be no more than 14 years old, but since she appeared to be six or seven months pregnant, and was no being looked upon by anyone else in the bar with shame, it was likely she was at least a couple years older than that. The next thing he noticed after these observations of the girl herself was the flagon she was carrying outstretched towards him.

"I didn't order anything yet," he said as she sat the mug down right in front of him.

"It's okay," she said. "This one's on me. You look like you need it." She just stood there, gazing at him intently, if he were more focused he might even have said lovingly, until he finally felt obligated to take a swig.

"Very good," he lied, for the taste hadn't even registered enough in his brain for him to determine if it was good or not.

She nodded and sat down in the chair across from him continuing to stare. She looked like she wanted to say something, but didn't quite know how to begin. Something within him jumped, and he felt a strange compulsion to want to help her, and as he sat looking back at her, trying to ascertain how he might do so, he felt an even stranger pulse of recognition looking into her deep blue eyes.

"I know you," he said simply.

The girl smiled, such a beautiful yet sad smile she had. "Yes," she said, placing her hands nervously on the surface of the table, "you do."

"You, you were one of them out near the street when we were walking by," he said, more excitedly than he should have. "You were sweeping your porch and you stopped to look at us when we walked by."

The smile dropped right off her face and she nodded, leaving her head in the downward position to stare and the nearly empty surface of the table. He didn't seem to noticed the change in her demeanor.

He frowned. "Why did you look at me like you did?" he asked.

She looked back up at him, trying to not look as heart-broken as she was feeling. "Excuse me?" she said.

"The way you looked at me," he said. "I didn't think of it at the time, but now, I think, it was somehow... different than how the others looked at me, almost as if you actually felt something about my being there."

She nodded. "I felt," she said, "that all the others ought not to have forgotten you."

He wrinkled his brow in confusion at this. "And you?" he questioned. "You didn't forget us? Were you even born when we left?"

She glanced down at her hands, which were fidgeting with one another, apart from her control, on the top of the table. "It doesn't matter if I was or not," she said. "No one should forget anyone who was once such a close part of their lives or the lives of others close to them."

He sighed heavily. It was clear this girl was just feeling guilty, perhaps about something entirely different. He doubted she even knew where he had been and what he had been doing over the past 15 years, and for some reason, whether she wanted to hear it or not, he felt compelled to tell her. "We were saving the world, you know," he said.

She nodded, still staring at her hands and willing them to stop behaving so badly. "Yes," she said rather morosely, "so I heard."

"It wasn't an easy task, you know," he continued, feeling compelled to take another swig of his drink, "and all we really wanted in return was for someone to remember and appreciate us."

She looked up suddenly, her hands stopped moving, and she seemed again as if she wanted to say something important, but instead all she said was, "Go on. Perhaps if you tell me the story, I can be the one to appreciate you."

Her words shocked him so much that he could think of nothing else to do but to do as she requested. And so, over the next several hours and nearly a dozen additional pints of ale, he told his 15 year story as succinctly as he possibly could. It was only when he got to the very end, and was very, very drunk, that he thought to go back to the very beginning and touch on the wife and child that he had so painfully left behind.

"She didn't even recognize me," he wailed. "And she didn't miss me, even if she had recognized me. She was with another man, had married him not five years after I left."

The girl grew somewhat annoyed at this, but he was to drunk to notice. "And what of your daughter?" she asked. "What was her reaction when she saw you again?"

The man shook his head solemnly. "I have yet to find out," he said. "My wife did not tell me what became of her, and I was too heart-broken to ask."

There was silence for a moment. The girl drummed her fingers a bit on the dusty table. She looked around at the mugs strew about them, then took a deep breath and leaned forward as much as her pregnant belly would allow her to. "I think," she said in a near whisper, just loud enough that he could make out her words, "that she never would have stopped loving you and thinking that you would return. And that when you did return, she would buy you a flagon of ale and sit there listening to you all night while she hoped she could gain up the courage to tell you as much."

There was silence again as the drunken old man sat there blinking at her, trying, in his inhibited state, to understand what she had just said to him. A few eternal moments passed and then she leaned away from him again and stood up. "Thank you, father," she said, stepping forward and squeezing his arm affectionately. "I know you did what you had to, and I appreciate it, even if no one else does. I always knew you would return, and I never stopped loving you."

There was no more pausing to look at him when she finished this statement; she simply released his arm and walked away. He sat there shaking from the alcohol or her words or the touch or all of these until she had faded away into the smokiness of the bar. It was not until this moment that he thought to jump up and shout, "Wait, come back!"

All this elicited was hateful stares from the other bar-goers who had forgotten he was even there and had wished to keep it that way. That beautiful young woman, his daughter, was no where to be seen. She had seemed too young to be his daughter, but he saw it now, it was as clear as every thing else in the world was not. Those eyes and that hair: she had been just a baby when he left her, but those things were just as he remembered them, if only he had remembered them sooner.

With sobs slowly starting to shake his body, he slumped back down into his chair and allowed the other townspeople to return to whatever it was they had been doing. He didn't care. For the first time since he had returned to this place, he was able to cry, and it wasn't because others had failed to remember him, it was because he had failed to remember her. All the pain he had felt, he was sure she was now feeling, and in his current state, he could think of no way to make it up to her. He simply let his head drop hard on top of the table and let his body shake in misery as the tears turned the thin layer of dust to a thin layer of mud. Everything else was forgotten at that moment. All he wished, more than anything in the world, was that she would return.

Return (,Waiting for)

2009-11-26T16:43:00.002-06:00

I was a young girl when it happened, a very young girl. I barely remember what my father even looked like; I have only vague recollection of an unshaved face rubbing against my soft, baby-like cheek and bright blue eyes gazing lovingly into mine. I was just over two when he left.

As I grew a little older, perhaps four or five, and began to wonder what had happened, that was when my mother reassured me, told me that my father had gone to save the world, but that these things took time. She told me he had gone off to be a hero. At the time, I thought it sounded like praise, but in retrospect, I wonder if she had been just a little bitter. She had loved him, I know that, but I wonder how much you would really continue to love someone who chooses to leave you with a baby girl on the vague notion that he is required to "save the world."

By the time I was eight or nine, my mother stopped lying to me. When I asked if my father was coming home this year, she finally told me he wasn't coming back. Now you have to understand when I say she stopped lying, what I really mean is that she started telling me what she believed to be true. I never stopped believing that my father was going to return.

When I turned 13, I was told I should start thinking about finding a husband. I wanted to ask how my mother had found my father, but somehow I knew better. I knew she would make some comment about not wanting me to find a man who would only leave me, if she made any reference to my absent father at all. Based on the fact that she had remarried the year before and was pregnant with her new husband's baby, I was pretty certain she had forgotten him all together.

As it turned out, I didn't have to do any searching for a husband since he found me. He started courting me just a few months before my 14th birthday and my mother was thrilled. He was a good, hard-working man from a respectable family. I wouldn't say that I loved him, but I at least appreciated him, and I felt I could grow to love him. I could see why my mother wanted me to marry him. He was clean-shaven, brown-eyed, and seemed to have no aspirations of saving the world, nothing like my vague and almost forgotten memory of my father.

I'm not sure how it happened, but somehow, I ended up happy. My husband was a good man; he provided for me, it was clear that he loved me, and just as I had thought, I had grown to love him. I also believed, still, even after all these years, that my father would one day return to meet my husband and his grandchild who was now on the way, and it turned out I was at least partially right.

I was 17 and pregnant when the strangers came. Five men dressed in beaten clothing and covered with mud. I was sweeping our porch when I saw them walking through town. I knew I had never seen them before, and yet they felt familiar. It wasn't the familiarity that struck me though, it was the pain. They didn't have to look at me for me to feel it, but one of them did anyway, and my heard nearly skipped a beat when I saw his beaten face, rough beard, and bright blue eyes. Could it really be that after 15 years the father I barely knew but loved anyway had returned?

All I could do was stare. He sighed and looked away, and I know he wished more than anything that he hadn't returned.

Return

2009-11-23T19:49:00.002-06:00

To return to the sweet sound of a cheering crowds, to trumpets and fanfare, this is what we most looked forward to as we made our journey home. We were heroes, and after all that fear and silence, we just wanted some noise and excitement and celebration. We wanted people to know what we had done, that we had saved them. We smiled to ourselves and to each other as we trekked onward. It was silent still, but it was okay because we knew what was to come.

We were exhausted and covered with dirt and grime as we reached the crest of the final hill. The sun was just starting to rise across the city. We saw the familiar yet nearly forgotten white walls shining brightly, beckoning us and welcoming us home. We could hardly contain our excitement, and as exhausted as we were, we raced down the hill, sprinting the last 200 yards, to reach the place we had longed for for so long. It was just as we left it.

Smiles beaming on our mud-caked faces, we gasped for breath as we reached the entry gate. We stood there for a moment, collecting all the thoughts and emotions flooding through our bodies, and then, slowly, but in an instant, all joy and hope drained from our bodies. We finally looked up at the guard who was looking down at us, and where we expected to see a smile of excitement, we saw a look of confusion. He stared at us a moment longer, and then spoke words more painful than any wounds we had sustained on our long and arduous journey: "Who are you?"

We had left that place almost 15 years ago, vowing to do whatever it took to save our city from the destruction that was foretold against it. After so many years of fighting and searching, we had found the hideous source of our distress and destroyed it, and then spent a full two more years traveling back. In all that time, we never lost hope because we knew we were fighting for a land that loved us and that we loved back. But now, in a moment, it became clear that what we thought to be true was not.

We had been warned there would be pain beyond any we had imagined, but we had assumed that would be in the journey and the quest itself, not now, not in our glorious return. It should have been a glorious return, but it was not. The city had forgotten we even existed, had left behind them any thoughts of danger, just as we had left behind the dead body of the very real danger that would have devoured them all.

Even our families had forgotten us. Our wives had given us up for dead long ago and found new husbands. Our children had grown old without us and found husbands and wives of their own. Our once faithful friends had found new men to drink with. Even the animals had either died or forgotten who we were. No one remembered and no one seemed to care, and those who did care cared only is as much as they wanted to keep on forgetting.

We forced some to hear our tale, but that's just what it was: forced. They didn't want to face the fact that we had saved them and they had forgotten us. Even worse, they didn't want to face the fact that they had needed saving at all, for if they admitted to that, they would be to blame for our non-triumphant entry.

We spent the best years of our lives in constant peril, only to return to this? Sad and rejected, we roamed the streets of the city that was no longer our home, ignoring the eyes of those who didn't want to see us. Time, in this case, did not heal wounds; it created them. It would have been better to continue in the dream, the hope, the lies. It would have been so much better to go on the quest, for we still loved these people, no matter how much they now despised us now, but after the mission was accomplished, never to return at all.

Options

2009-11-13T17:52:00.002-06:00

Fight or flee. That's usually what it comes down to, and this situation is no different.

This was supposed to be my night. But now my lipstick is smudged and fading, my dress is torn, and my hair is such a tangled mess if I looked in a mirror right now, I'm sure I would scream. But there is no mirror here; there is only me and him, alone in this dark room, and if I did choose to scream, no one else would hear me anyway.

It started out such a pleasant night, and he seemed so nice and normal and here, I thought, was someone who would finally see me for what I wanted to be. I get so tired of the people who end up seeing me for what I really am, no matter how hard I try to hide it.

I've made many mistakes in my life. There have been many times when I chose to fight when I should have fled or visa versa. But I try to put the past behind me: to learn from my mistakes and then move on.

I remember smiling at him at the start of the night. I know my intoxicating smile is one of my best features. When he smiled back, I saw it was one of his best features as well. I could see the two of us being very happy together.

How did it come to this? I've never been in a situation quite like this before. This was supposed to be my special night to shine, and now I just don't know what to think.

"Why did you do that?" I asked.

He shrugged nervously. "I had no other choice," he said. "It's what they told me to do."

They. Of course by now I know who they is. Those sick bastards. I've known them far too long to expect anything more than this crap.

He knows I'm pissed; he can see it in my eyes. I see something in his eyes too: fear. He wants to calm me down because he's afraid of what's going to happen next, but he can't because he's too afraid of what's going to happen next.

He finally opens his mouth to speak, but I won't let him. "Shut up," I say.

I know he's a dog, a pig, a fiend. He deserves to die.

I stare into his eyes, such a dark brown they are almost black: pools of deceit and of rage now turned to helplessness. He knows I'm in control now.

I've never held a gun before, but it feels strangely comfortable: the cold metal against my warm and sweaty palms. I hope he can't see how I'm shaking. If he did notice, he'd surely think it was from fear. I don't want either of us to realize what it really is.

I want to say I'm sorry, but I can't. I don't know if it would be true or not.

He's scared now. I can feel it. I refuse to close my eyes. I pull the trigger.

I was chosen when I was very young: set aside to be someone special. Even after that, though, I never really felt special: I just felt weird. I could never tell anyone who I really was, and yet everyone somehow seemed to know.

That's why this night was so special. This night was supposed to be my night to put the past behind me, to change who I was and never go back. I thought I had options; I thought I was making the right choice, but clearly I was wrong.

It felt so strange to kill him like that. I've had to deal with many enemies in my life, but I'd always handled them another way. Of course, it's only to be expected that I would be unable to handle things like that tonight. The whole point of tonight was to leave those ways behind and so, of course, my sword was not with me. I had gotten so used to using it, but in this case, I had no other options, and it seems my new best option is laid clearly before me.

I look down at the gun in my hand and smile as I turn and walk away. Yes, this will do nicely.

Ideas

2009-11-12T21:57:00.002-06:00

Like the sea, thoughts swirl inside of me.
Which ones will break free?

Like lightning, they flash, there and then gone.
Fleeting, tempting.

When will a good one come?

There are some many things I feel I could say
but I have no way to say them.

I have memories of having memories,
but the memories themselves are faded.

It's like an old picture from 100 years ago.
It once was so clear, but now it's turning to dust.

What was I going to write today?

Some ideas are gone
until someone else remembers them.

Like a Dream

2009-11-01T22:28:00.002-06:00

Sometimes it seems like the things I notice in life must be figments, like they can't possibly be real. People who to horrendous things, things I would never come up with on my own, but must somehow be lurking in the back of my mind anyway. And even if they weren't there before, they are now, because I see them almost every day I turn on the evening news.

But its not all nightmares and evil omens. There are also people who do things so wonderful that I can't imagine their stories can really be true. Pure, selfless people who think of others before themselves; people who love the world so much, they would be willing to die to save just a portion of it: do such people really exist? The stories I've told would tell me they do.

As for my own life, it's not so exciting in either extreme, but still, most of the time, it just seems like a dream. It's little things really. Suddenly feeling like I can't remember something that I should have, like there's some detail that my brain just skipped over because it ultimately wasn't important. Seeing someone I've never met before but who still seems strangely familiar. Thinking something is going to happen and then seeing that come true. A glare from a nemesis or a smile from a potential friend or even lover. It's simple, but sometimes it's just so unreal, the things that happen in every day life.

The biggest thing though, is how little of it really seems to matter. The things that seem so important in the moment end up to ultimately be meaningless, to the point that I forget them later when another cycle of my life takes over. The dream seems thrilling at the time, but if I can't even remember it a few months or days or even hours later, what good is it really? Perhaps I have an impact on someone else's dream, and that's at least something, but I have no memory or knowledge of it myself. And that's the strangest feeling: knowing you had a dream, but having no recollection of it.

It's all meaningless in the end; well, most of it anyway, but that doesn't make it any less enjoyable. We all treasure our dreams as we're having them, but when we wake up, we realize that they were nothing more than dreams, and it's real life that really matters. When you're dreaming, you think it's real, and it's all that's on your mind. Our dreams are a part of us, but they aren't who we are. Who we are is who we are when our eyes are open. We love our dreams, as we should, but if all we have is dreams, we are left longing for something more.

Life is a dream, and I'm just a sleep walker waiting to wake up.

Dancer

2009-10-31T12:03:00.002-05:00

She sways her hips and flashes her bright beautiful smile. She's like a princess, a goddess. I watch her glide and twirl around the floor. She knows how to capture the heart of any man, and I know she's captured mine.

I see him sitting there, watching me dance, and I know what he's thinking. It's written all over his face. I flash him a coy smile and watch his face brighten, almost as bright as my bright red skirt. I spin circles around my partner, but my eyes aren't on him, they are on the man watching me, the man who can't take his eyes off of me.

She knows I'm watching her. I see her staring at me. She pays no attention to that man she's dancing with, another one of the instructors I think. She doesn't even need to pay attention to what she's doing, she's just that good. I wish I could be the one holding her, the one spinning her around the floor, helping her look like a goddess. But still, I'm the one she's looking at, not him. I can't get that fact off my mind.

The song finishes and I thank my partner and turn away. I do a little hip sway, but its not the for the man I'm walking away from, it's for the man I'm walking towards, the man that hasn't taken his eyes off me all night. I lick my lips a little as I stride towards him. He knows what's coming, and I know he's nervous, but I know he'll end up loving it.

"May I have this dance," she says as she holds her hand out.

He laughs and shakes his head. "You know, I'm no good at this," he says. "I've told you a million times."

Her smile widens briefly and she replies, "Yes, I know, but every time I get you to dance with me, and every time you get a little bit better."

He takes her hand and rises. "That's because I have an amazing teacher," he says.

She pulls him close and whispers in his ear, "That's because I have an amazing student." Then she gives him a little wink and they walk onto the floor together so that he can make a fool of himself and look great doing it. But he loves it, because he loves her, and even though he's not very good at it, he loves to dance.

"I love you," she whispers in his ear.

"I love you, too," he says back.

And that's what it's like, at least in this case, to date a dancer.

Fear

2009-10-31T11:13:00.000-05:00

I hate the feeling. You know the one. You feel trapped, like something you can't prevent is about to happen, and not just anything, but something terrible. Some people are afraid of spiders or heights or tight spaces or water. I have no idea what I'm afraid of.

I'm sure it all goes back to my childhood and some traumatic experience. That's what my shrink suspects. I trust she knows what she's talking about, because I really have no idea at all. I can't remember a thing.

I guess the one thing I am afraid of is forgetting to take my pills, because I know that if I don't take them, I'll be even worse than I already am. The one thing I do remember is how I felt before I started on the pills and I don't want to ever go back to that.

Do you ever get a feeling when you walk into a dark room that something isn't quite right, that something dangerous is somewhere nearby just waiting for you? That's how I feel all the time. I guess you'd call it apprehension. That's why I take the pills. It used to be much wore. It used to be more like paranoia.

I couldn't go anywhere. Even in my own home, I didn't feel safe. I never knew what it was. It was nothing, it was everything, but I just never could get rid of that fear. I didn't even know what fear was because I couldn't remember a time living without it, it was just the normal way I always was.

I don't remember how it happened, but somehow, Dr. Rodgers found me. I think a neighbor might have finally called about me, or something happened that made me wander out and do something that got me reported, or maybe she just knew somehow. Sometimes I think she knew me before all this because there are times when I just look at her and she seems so familiar. Not familiar in the obvious sense that I've had therapy sessions with her every other day for the past year (I think it's been a year), but in the sense that I actually know her as a person. We always talk about me (as best we can) but still, I feel like I know things about her. It's a weird feeling, but its a million times better than the fear I know I felt before I met her.

Slowly, I think my life might be getting back to normal, whatever that means. I don't remember normal, not even sure if I ever was normal. Normal people have a family they can remember and friends other than their therapist. Normal people have interests and passions. Normal people know where the money they get in the mail every week comes from. And normal people have fears, but they know what those fears are.

At least I can feel safe in my own home, usually. The apprehension will always be there, Dr. Rodgers has warned me of as much, but I don't feel so terrified that I can't even get out of bed anymore. After all, I have to get out of bed to go to my sessions.

That is mostly my life: sleeping, eating, staying clean, you know, the essentials, and then therapy. I see other people when I go in to therapy and they look so sad. I wonder if that's how I look to them. I worry about it sometimes, just like I worry about everything, but I'm fighting it, fighting to control it. Maybe someday, I'll even have interests and passions like a normal person. But probably not. This is my life, and I have to accept it. All I can hope for is making it a little less painful.

Making it a little less painful is what Dr. Rodgers is there for. The pills help a lot, that's true, but it's something about her. She just seems so kind and helpful, but more than that even. I feel safe with her. Once I get inside that office, for those two hours every other day, I feel safe, like nothing bad could ever possibly happen to me. I trust her with my life, because I know she saved it. She is the one thing I know I am not and never will be afraid of.

"Subject responsive to second round of drugs. Simulated paranoia decreasing. Two year trial period half completed."

She closed the case file and closed her eyes. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I should have never convinced you to do this. I know you'll never love me again when this is done. And that fear isn't worth any of this."

2083

2009-10-28T19:35:00.000-05:00

There shall be angels walking among us, and we shall know them not, but they shall see our kindness or cruelty and we shall be judged accordingly.

Technology has come a long way in the last 100 years. The days of the super computer are long gone. I don't think anyone even remembers what a computer is anymore. They have transcended such simplicities and made them utterly unnecessary. Knowledge is meaningless because it is now so easy to obtain. It's a wonder schools even exist in any form. I give them 10, maybe 15 more years tops until they become obsolete as well.

I met one today, one of the angels, that is. She was beautiful. I could barely take my eyes off of her. She looked at me, and even then, I could not look away. I know that one day, I will make her my wife.

It is fortunate that people have not lost track of the important of being healthy. It's strange how much less strenuous health is than it once was. Every food seems to be enriched with this or that. And the indoor recreational options make facing the elements to get exercise completely unnecessary. Considering how hard it used to be, it is no surprise at all that people were so obese 80 years ago.

The angel had a name. The tag said it was Cindy. Funny that after all this time, coffee bars and minimum wage employees still haven't gone out of style. It's just that the coffee is healthier and the minimum wage more stretchable than it used to be, based on what I've heard anyway.

The only thing that still seems to mesmerize us is the stars. Planets seem to be widely understood, but stars still capture our imagination. New ways to use their power are few of the innovations that remain. And we still want to reach out and touch them and still can't. The only one we can really reach is still our own sun, and people question more and more just how long it will last.

She smiled at me when she gave me my coffee. I opened my mouth to say something beautiful, but all I could say was, "Thanks." She nodded, didn't say a word and walked away.

My grandparents tell me all the stories about the way things used to be. They seem nostalgic, but strangely happy with the way things are now as well. After all, it is the modern technologies that have lengthened their expected life span to nearly 100 years. It's too bad the knowledge they gather over those 100 years is meaningless to everyone but them.

I never got a chance to say anything more to her. I think she actually went on her break or finished her shift or something, because I didn't see her when I left, but I left a generous tip for her anyway, just in case she'd come back later to claim it. And even if she didn't, it would make someone happy. And that kind of emotion is all we really have left to rely on.

Love is a science. That's the way most people see it now. It is understood completely, in the same way basic physics or chemistry are, because that's really all it boils down to. Yet, it still manages to throw people for a loop now and again. Professional matchmakers are hot, promising to find you the perfect mate and delivering on their promise more often than our ancestors could have possibly imagined. But knowing how love works and actually making it work are two completely different things. And thus, there is still pain.

Many would have thought that with all the knowledge that exists, religion would be obsolete, but strangely, it seems stronger than ever. People want something they can't understand, and religion fills that whole beautifully. Sure, many religions are based on logic and knowledge, but none can be based entirely on it. There always has to be that element of faith and hope and not understanding. That's why the stories spread, now more than ever, and why more and more of the world is starting to believe in the angels that I know roam the earth.

Smile

2009-10-27T22:17:00.000-05:00

That's all it takes.

Criticism

2009-10-27T22:05:00.000-05:00

Some days it's all I can do to keep from hating her. She's so bright and chipper and optimistic when the whole world seems to be crashing down around her. She always tries to look for the good when no good exists.

She's had a terrible life. No, really. Her parents never loved her and she had no siblings to turn to. Her friends always moved away when she needed them most. She should be spending all her time feeling sorry for herself, and yet she somehow manages to smile. She never even talks about her past or her hardships. She just goes on making new friends and showing them her bright side, even though she knows in her heart that they will leave her in her darkest hour.

Sometimes I wonder why she even goes on living. I mean, she would never consider killing herself. No one should ever take it that far. But sometimes it just seems it should be difficult for her to get up in the morning. She should just stay in bed all day, every day, and slowly waste away. Death by attrition. That's what seems most beneficial to her. And yet, every day, she gets out of bed, even on those rare occasions when she is feeling a little sick or down, and prepares to face the day.

She walks through her lonely apartment with a soft smile that no one else can see. She brews her coffee and closes her eyes as the warm scent fills the air. She savors every taste because some days, this morning cup is the high light of her day. No one appreciates her at work, but yet she works hard. Her friends are usually too busy, but she always makes time for them. Her family never checks in to see how she's doing, but she sends them a card for every Christmas and birthday, expecting nothing in return.

She is truly exceptional, and the world does not appreciate it. She is full of the hope that things must get better because it is hard to imagine them getting any worse. She hears rain and immediately sees a rainbow. She tells herself the storm will clear, even though she knows it might be an eternity before it does.

Why does she see things in such a way? Why can't she just be a realist? Why can't the logical part of me make her see all she's missing? Maybe it's because she isn't missing a thing. She knows this all because I know it all, and yet she refuses to accept it as the way things must be. She is convinced a better day is coming, and so I am convinced as well.

But yet, day after day, she is afraid to face the reality of who and what she really is: just a person, lost and alone like the rest of us, hoping for something more, but not knowing if she'll ever find it. Her friends are a comfort for a while, but she knows she needs something more, something inside her that for all her optimism and hope is still somehow missing, and until she finds it, she can't really face who she truly is, who anyone truly is.

That is the true criticism I have for her: forcing herself to be happy without really having a reason why. There is no reason for her not to be happy, not really, because depression is just a waste of time, but there is no reason for true happiness either. And that is the reason that she, that I, cannot look at myself in the mirror anymore.

A girl (part 6)

2009-10-24T10:28:00.000-05:00

And so, this is where our story ends. No grand revelation or deep conclusions. Just a simple story of a simple girl as was simply promised. There is really no more to say. You can go home now, either content in hearing a sweet but simple story with a contented ending, or you can walk off angrily, feeling you have wasted the few minutes it took to read this tale. Either way, it makes no difference to Anna. She simply is what she is, and that's all she can share with you.

---------------

"Anna? I've met many girls named Anna. Can you be a bit more specific? Oh, that girl from high school? I swear her name wasn't Anna, but oh well. Of course I remember her. She was the first girl I ever kissed. Brown hair, blue eyes, I think. She was a sweetie. She's working in New York now? Funny, I never really expected her to leave home. She was such a sweet, simple girl, so unlike the crowd I hang out with these days. I don't think of her often, but every once in a while, I wonder what might have been... She's the reason I still have a soft side, you know. And the reason I'm not afraid to let things go that aren't working out. New York really isn't that far. Maybe I'll look her up sometime, you know, in between girlfriends or something."

"Ah yes, I don't really remember the name, but I remember the girl. She stood out in my mind as being the quietest girl in class. She always just did her homework, handed it in, and moved on. No grand quest for knowledge there, nor any complaints when she got a less than ideal grade. It was refreshing, really, to have a student who simply was: neither an overachiever, nor underachiever. It is truly rare to find someone with such a perfect balance. Some would call it 'average', but truly, it isn't average at all. I've had thousands of students, so trust me, I know. I suppose it still might seem odd that I remember her from among those thousands, but from what I just told her, it shouldn't seem odd at all. Strangely, she renewed my love of teaching. I knew I was making an impact on her, even though she never spoke to me, never tried to suck up, never complained. So she married a mathematician? Somehow, I'm not surprised. I knew there was something there. Even if she was not in love with the field herself, I could easily see her falling in love with someone who was."

"I've had hundreds of students. I can't possibly remember them all. Was this the one from freshman lit in fall of 2000? I think I do remember her. Well, not her in particular, but something she said. We were reading this book, the specific title is not important to you, I'm sure, but it in was a young man who was always striving to be more, always seeking to be and achieve more than what he was. Some students saw him as a great man, others saw him as a tragic figure. Anna was quiet for a moment until I prompted her for an opinion. She took a few seconds to reply, but then she said, 'If he could learn to be content with where he is now, I think he would better succeed in what he wants to be.' I will never forget that. It was such a bizarre thing to say, that being content could push you to be something more, but somehow, it rung true. That is one of few things that really stood out in my mind from my recent years of teaching. I would have given her an A just for that statement. I think I ended up giving her an A- based on the other work she did. The work I can't even remember."

"The girl you are talking about was in my class senior year. I can say little other than she could have done better. It was a boy who got in her way. It always is. But even when I gave her grades that we both knew were not representative of her capabilities, all she did was smile. Now, I'm a professor of psychology, so of course I understand. That's why I did nothing to change it. But still, a mind like that is a rare thing. I could have given her an A+ and it would have made no difference. No matter what happened, she was really, truly, happy. I understand what makes a person like that, but I can't even make myself like that. I think of her, and I truly wish I could."

"Oh, Anna! Of course, she's our top receptionist! And so loved by the children. I wish we could let her do more, but the jobs simply aren't available. I always feel like she has a calming influence on the children. One boy in particular, from when she first started here, I remember he used to always be so hostile and refused to be honest with me. But shortly after Anna started here, I saw a change. He seemed more relaxed and, slowly but surely, began to open up more. I know what did it because I saw one day the way he looked at her when he was leaving the office and I was giving Anna some paperwork to file. He loved her, in that sweet, innocent, child-like way, and he wanted to get better because of her. I never told Anna, mostly for fear that her knowing would make things awkward, but now that that little boy has moved on, maybe I should. She really is a special person, even if it was just one little boy who noticed it."

STOP

2009-10-22T22:42:00.000-05:00

Because you stopped, I met you. Because you saw I was frustrated and alone and didn't know what to do when my car broke down on the side of the road. Because you took the time to pull over and call a mechanic for me. Because you were so kind and helpful. Because you stopped.

Because you stopped before walking away, just long enough to ask for my number, so you could stop another time and call me. Because you smiled at me and stopped to take the time to not just buy me a drink, but also listen to what I had to say. Because you stopped looking at the other women for that one night and looked only at me. Because you stopped.

Because you stopped caring. Because I remembered when you did. Because I never stopped. You broke my heart, but I managed to put the pieces back together. Because someone else stopped to ask me if I was alright. Because someone else always cared. That's when I knew I had to stop.

Because I had stopped seeing things clearly. Because I felt lost and alone. Because I just needed a friend and someone to help me. Because I was walking by and just happened to glance over and see the flyer. Because I wanted to smile again, I found that I could. Because I stopped.

Because she stopped calling. Because I knew she was too stubborn to be the one to make amends. Because I wanted things to be like they were. Because I didn't want to hate her. Because I needed to stop and take the time to realize that this wasn't the time to stop, but I had to know what was.

Because I saw you had stopped. Because I knew things would not be like I wanted. Because I knew it wasn't meant to be. Because I knew I needed to move on. I stopped.

Because he stopped me. Because he wanted to know if I had the time to stop and consider. Because they looked so helpless and adorable. Because I stopped to consider all the blessings I have and so little I'd given back. Because $10 a month is really not that much. Because I got stopped.

Because you stopped. Because you realized you were making me unhappy and remembered a time we had been happy. Because you wanted to make things work. Because you still loved me and knew that would never stop. Because you stopped, I didn't have to stop loving you, too.

Sometime you don't want to remember, and sometimes you do. Sometimes you have to because it makes you who you are. Life is a journey, full of stops along the way. Sometimes you want to and sometimes you don't want to, but there is always a time when you just have to take a deep breath and stop.

A girl (part 5)

2009-10-22T22:35:00.000-05:00

They struggled for a while, but eventually Anna got a job of her own working as an assistant/receptionist at a family counselling firm. She mostly did clerical work, but got to assist with some clients as well. She was rather perceptive and good at connecting with the children, however briefly. The doctors and other professionals who were in charge of things thought well of her, though never well enough to take full advantage of her abilities, limited though they may have been.

Still, Anna was happy to wake up beside her husband in the morning, content at work, and excited for the quiet evenings she shared with her love at home. Though they lived in New York, they saw very little of the city as they had very little money left over to spend on such frivolous things. Contentment was the story of their existence. And so it continued and does even now. There were of course other things like family visits and small groups of friends they somehow managed to acquire. There was even talk of starting a family in more recent months, but even with all this, Anna's life remains simple, just like she likes it. And if she touches even a few lives in some small way, even if its so small its not really worth mentioning, she will be content.

A girl (part 4)

2009-10-18T11:27:00.000-05:00

Anna had a decent summer, though she spent a lot of it missing her new boyfriend, and came back for her second year of college ready to face whatever would come her way. Fortunately for her, she didn't have too much to face that year. Classes weren't overly difficult (she was able to get all B+'s and A-'s without overly exerting herself) and her relationship with her boyfriend seemed pretty solid.

It was junior year when a few unpleasant things happened. First, her grandma died. Then a few months later, her boyfriend dumped her, explaining that he felt they weren't going anywhere and that he had actually wanted to move on sooner but felt bad about the grandma situation. His concern for her was some consolation, and a healthy portion of ice cream combined with crying to some of the friends she had met i psychology classes helped with both situations. Sadly, it didn't help enough to keep Anna from ending up with a D halfway through one of her classes and deciding to withdraw from it. She felt a little bad about that, but she was still able to pull a B average in her other classes, so it wasn't so bad.

By senior year, Anna had recovered and was ready to start looking for a job in the real world. She was also ready, it turned out, to meet a new man. They met at a debate about social reform. It turned out he was actually a mathematician, but that didn't bother Anna too much. He was one of the rare breed of geniuses (or at least people who Anna viewed as geniuses) who somehow had also learned how to have a good time. And being from New York City, it seemed he knew even more about having a good time than Anna did.

Because of this man, senior year was Anna's best year yet. Her grades ended up being not quite as good as they could have been, but it turned out the same thing happened to him, and neither of them cared. Anna still ended up with a couple different job offers, but what mattered most to her was his job offer in New York City, the offer for the dream accountant position he had always wanted, strange as that sounds. Anna told him she would follow him there if that was what it took for them to be together, and the day after graduation, he forced her to prove it by asking her to marry him. She didn't even hesitate.

They threw together a simple wedding and somehow managed to be married in mid-August, just before he started work in late September. Anna had never been happier. Even working in New York, her husband was no great man that anyone would ever hear of, but he was her great man, and that was enough for her. Perhaps if she hadn't been such a simple, old-fashioned girl from a small town, she wouldn't have been so eager to follow him anywhere, but as it was, she was willing to do most anything for him, and in this case, that made them both very happy.

Snow

2009-10-10T19:05:00.000-05:00

In honor of the first snow of the season today, I thought I would write a little something about it. Keep in mind that this is completely fictional, though. =)

SNOW

I always hated the snow. So many crazy people think it is beautiful. They talk about how white and pure and beautiful it is. They say it washes the world clean, makes us see everything in a new light. All I see when I look at snow is a cold, wet disease that gives people an excuse to stop trying and that kills all that once was truly alive and beautiful with its bitter frost.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that when I was younger, maybe seven or eight, my older brother stuffed my face into the snow. But most children have memories from before the age of seven, and I never can remember a time when I actually liked the snow. In fact, I remember very distinctly that the day my brother tried to drown me in that white monster I hadn't even wanted to go outside to "play." Of course my mother thought I was just being silly and that all children wanted to play in the snow. How little she knew. How little any of them ever knew.

Tommy always did say I was a strange girl. He often wondered why he loved me. He never said so, but I know he did. Either that, or he never even loved me at all. I don't blame him. What guy could really want to be with a girl that hates the winter so passionately that she won't even drink hot chocolate or curl up in front of a fireplace. It's just a good thing he wasn't big into skiing or something like that. If he had been, I'm sure we would have broken up much sooner than we did. Of course, it was during the winter that we did break up, January 19 to be exact. I've always hated the snow.

If I ever do get married and have children, I'm going to make sure they aren't born in the winter time, but at the rate I'm going, marriage doesn't seem all that likely. It's really hard to find dates around here, or at least to find dates that aren't crazy. I can't help but feeling I don't belong here, but they tell me I'm where I should be. What do they know anyway? It's my own life. I should be free to live it how I want. But I'm always the good little girl: doing what I'm told I should, what I know I need to. Sometimes I just want to get out, go somewhere else, somewhere it doesn't snow.

But no matter how much I complain, I know I don't really have it so bad. There are many people who have it much worse than me: people who don't have roofs over their heads or warm beds to sleep in or hot food to eat. I really shouldn't complain at all, but I can't help it. I am just human after all. That's what I keep trying to tell them. I'm just human. They can't expect me to be perfect.

We all have something we hate, truly hate with a passion. It's not weird or abnormal. What's abnormal is being so scared of spiders that you see a small piece of a cobweb and think they're crawling all over you. What's weird is thinking you can make lightning strike people dead if you feel so inclined, and that you've done so before. Those are the people you have to look out for. Those are the real crazies.

I hate the snow. I've always hated the snow. I don't hate people who love the snow, I really don't. They just get on my nerves so much sometimes I can't stop myself. I just have to act out. Is that really so bad? Should I really be looked down upon for that?

Maybe it wasn't my brother or the breakup that really caused my problems. Maybe it was my kitten that ran off in late November and froze to death. That was sure something to be thankful for while we were carving turkey. Maybe it was my friend who feel off the roof when pretending to be Santa for her nieces and almost broke her back. That was a wonderful Christmas. Maybe it was the terrible plane flight that almost crashed when my parents forced me to go to Times Square for New Years' that one year. There was no defining moment that pushed me over the edge, but maybe if just one of those things hadn't happened, then maybe I wouldn't have done what I did, and maybe, just maybe I wouldn't have ended up here.

I hear them moaning and mopping around behind me. They want to go out and play in it, but the nurses keep telling them its too cold. Stupid crazy people. They really don't understand. Why would anyone want to go outside and play in that? How could anyone think it was beautiful or refreshing or representative of hope? I guess these people find hope wherever they can, no matter how foolish and illogical it may be.

As for me, all I can do is stare. I sit here in my wooden chair with my hands on my thighs and stare. Every time I say something, they just think I'm wrong or insane, so I gave up on talking long ago. I take the pills, just like they tell me to, but it doesn't get any better. I still hate it, but still, all I can do is stare at those perfectly little atrocious flakes falling down because maybe, just maybe, if I can convince them that I don't hate the snow anymore, they will let me out of here. Then I can go away, far, far away where it doesn't snow anymore and I don't have to deal with it anymore. They tell me I have to be here, so I stay. What choice do I have? But really, I just want out. God, how I want out.

I hate the snow.

A girl (part 3)

2009-10-10T18:58:00.000-05:00

The thought of college had always appealed to Anna. She enjoyed her childhood and growing up in a small, closely knit community, but a part of her also longed to explore and experience new things, and going to a university where her class size was larger than the population of her entire town would certainly be a new experience.

Anna had always been an average student, and so she chose to go to an average school where she received an average amount of financial aide and took average freshman classes as she explored what exactly it was she would want to do with the rest of her life. She was a good student, but did nothing to really make herself stand out among her peers. She spoke her fair share in her political science and literature classes. She quietly crunched numbers in mathematics and economics. Some professors knew her name, and others didn't. Some students started to recognize her and others didn't.

Anna joined a couple of clubs. She learned to play tennis and attempted to sing, which she quickly gave up on. She enjoyed film club, mostly because of her wide and non-particular taste in movies. Boys talked to her rather easily, but none went out of their way to get with her. She flirted a little with some of them: enough to get a boyfriend second semester, a nice boy who found appeal in her small town look and feel, whatever that might mean.

Overall, freshman year was a good year, and after taking an excellent class second semester, Anna chose her major: psychology.

A girl (part 2)

2009-10-09T00:31:00.000-05:00

In the year 1982 she was born in a tiny town deserving of even less recognition than she and her family. She was the first and only child of a simple couple who had known each other since childhood and got married primarily because it made sense and there were not many other people to choose from within the town. Still, most who saw them would say they were in love and that Anna was the product of their love.

Anna herself was never lacking affection from her parents and other friends and family. She grew up a simple child in that simple town, but she never even knew she should have wanted more. She was well cared for and always seemed happy. She had a few playmates near her age, and never even considered that in a bigger town she might be free to choose her friends. The friends she had were the only friends available. Still, Anna was content.

Anna went to a rural school with several other children from surrounding small towns. The school had three teachers covering six grades. Anna never excelled in school, but she never fell behind either. She was, in all senses of the word, average. And it wasn't just in her studies either. She was well adapted to getting along with other children, but did nothing to make her stand out or make herself popular, as much as that could be possible in a school of six grades and only 49 students. Everyone seemed to like Anna, but no one adored her. At worst other students tolerated her and at best they enjoyed her company.

As Anna grew older, boys started to become a slight interest. Again, there was nothing outstanding to note about her skills and experiences in this area. She had her first kiss when she was 14, if you count a kiss on the cheek as a kiss, and went on her first "date" to a school dance later that same year after she turned 15. She danced tolerably and her date was moderately handsome, intelligent, and kind, much like Anna herself.

When she was 16, she broke up with him, mostly because neither of them was ever particularly fond of the other to begin with, and started in with her second boyfriend a few months later. He too was not much to speak of, and that second relationship lasted about as long as the first. For most of her senior year of high school, Anna was single, but that was okay because she was preparing for college anyway.

A girl (part 1 of ?)

2009-10-07T19:55:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time there was a girl. Now how many stories about a girl have there been before? Stories about girls of great talent or beauty or courage. Tales of love and devotion or of independence and strength. Tales of gorgeous princesses or brilliant scientists or lady warriors who took the world by surprise. This story is none of these things because this girl was no great or magnificent creature, no sweet damsel nor powerful maiden about whom songs were sung for ages. This girl was simply a girl, a girl of no importance that no one would even choose to notice were it not for these words written now for no good reason. Her name does not even matter, but for the sake of making the story tellable, we shall call her Anna.

Now if you are expecting some grand surprise or shocking turn of events, you can stop reading now. This is not a story of a girl who started out simple and became great. This is a story of a girl who was born simple, lives simple, and in all likelihood will die simple. It is a simple tale with no real meaning or purpose other than to exist, much like Anna herself. So if you are looking for something deep or meaningful, turn to one of the great works of literature, for this is not a story you will want to hear. But if you are simple yourself, or wish to rediscover the simplicity you lost long ago, then maybe, just maybe, this is the very story you have been waiting to hear.

Beginnings and Endings

2009-10-06T21:21:00.000-05:00

Short segments of the first and final lines of potential stories with nothing in between.

1. Trust is a strange thing. Some give it until you lose it and others withhold it until you earn it. Anna was in the first category, except she kept trusting even after she shouldn't have. Unfortunately for her, this cost her her life.

Her breathing slowed as she looked up into his cold, heartless eyes and somehow, even then, she managed to see something of a compassion there that no one else had ever managed to see. After all, he was still holding her there. He had refused to let her go. "I, I forgive you," she whispered. And then ever so slowly, she closed her eyes and drifted away. He held her head for a moment in silence and then slowly lowered her to the concrete below, his black gloves careful not to leave any more marks. And then, with a solemn face, he turned, walked away, and never looked back. Trust is a strange thing.

2. Spring is my favorite season: so full of life and love and happiness. Everything seems possible in the spring time. The birds sing their merry songs and the flowers start to bloom. Maybe this season, I might even find what I've been looking for.

Spring is my least favorite season: so full of false hope and lies. I never would have guessed before how far I'd come to realize this. Nothing ever turns out as it should. No one really knows what tomorrow may bring: it could be happiness or it could be heartache. For me, it's always been both, but the happiness is as fleeting as the birds or the flowers or the springtime. And somehow, strangely, after all this time, I'm finally okay with that.

Spring is my favorite season. It shows itself for what it is: new beginnings taking the place of old life. There can never be new growth without previous death. That is why its so beautiful: not simply because its new, but because its taking the place of something old that has faded away. I will always love the spring, not matter what it may or may not bring.

3. When someone loves you, nothing else matters, or so I've been told. Maybe someday I'll find out for myself whether or not that is true.

Even though it didn't last, I was happy, and I know it will be happy again. When someone loves you, nothing else matters. I know now for a fact that this is true.

4. It was always my dream to play in the orchestra. I knew I wasn't that good, but that didn't stop me from dreaming. We all have dreams, realistic or not, this is the story of what happened as a result of mine.

I think I must have cried off and on for weeks after that night. There's really nothing to describe such an experience; you just have to feel it for yourself. No matter what anyone else might say, I would never want to have it any other way. After all, I fulfilled the dream I had always truly wanted, even though it meant I had to give up the dream I always claimed I wanted. And that, my friends, is the secret of true happiness: sacrificing one great dream for something you know is even greater.

5. "Once upon a time in a far off and distant land." So begins he tale of a warrior, of a great man, written by a man greater still whose face we may never see and whose name we may never hear except in whispers and rumors. This story is just one of the rumors of things that surely never were and never shall be.

"And so," he wrote, "with these words, I finally slip away, my pen the greatest weapon of them all."

All I Ever Wanted

2009-10-05T21:09:00.000-05:00

I wanted a man who could protect me: a bold, confident man.

I gave her a gentle man who didn’t flaunt his masculinity or strength.

I wanted someone who would always be there for me so I didn’t feel alone.

I gave her the space every woman wanted.

I wanted a man who wasn’t afraid to be honest and speak his mind.

I always listened to what she had to say and never tried to contradict her.

I wanted a man of passion.

I never got too intense.

I wanted to have fun and be happy.

I was afraid I could never make her happy.

I wanted to know who he really was.

I could have never shown her who I really was.

I wanted a man who didn’t have to try so hard.

I tried so hard.

He never understood.

I don’t think I ever understood.

Playing with time and details

2009-10-04T15:53:00.001-05:00

Here's a short story I wrote shortly after taking a fiction writing class in the Summer of 2005. The class was taught by a professor who was a huge fan of seemingly random details, and so I attempted to make use of those little things in this story. It has no title and appears with only a couple very minor edits from how I originally wrote it.

All of my friends hated watching mystery movies with me. I’d always figure out who the culprit was less than a quarter of the way through the movie, usually within the first two scenes if the movie was exceptionally poorly done. All my friends got mad at me when I blurted it out, as if they really didn’t know themselves who was responsible for the crime. I never understood how they could not know.

I have to admit, Agatha Christie gave me a bit more of a challenge that the typical murder mystery. It usually took me three or four chapters to figure her out instead of the usual two, but at any rate, it was never any real challenge. Once you know what to look for in a mystery story, nothing is hard to figure out anymore.

When I was eight, I remember standing in front of the mirror wearing the blood red dress with the white lace around the edges. I looked like a glass of tomato juice. Not the tomato itself, just the juice. I didn’t really feel like smiling when I looked in the mirror, but I did know I had to put on a happy face when I marched down the aisle at the head of the procession. After all, it isn’t every day you get to meet the pope. I should know, since I’ve never met him, and probably never will, but it might be interesting if I do, and if I ever do, I will make certain to tell you about it. At the time, I didn’t know who the pope was, and the man who would be performing the ceremony for my sister and future brother-in-law looked enough like what I imagined a pope would look like for me to pretend that that’s really who he was. My brother-in-law was careful to point out that that wasn’t really the pope, but I believed it was for a long time afterwards anyway.

I would never answer the phone when it rang. I always left it up to my parents or younger brother to inquire as to who was calling. Then if it was for me, I could prepare myself before the first hello. The one time my brother told me it was for me, but refused to tell me who it was, I got pretty mad at him. I figure he just forgot to ask, but he pretended as if he just didn’t want to tell me. But it ended up to just be my best friend, Cindy, and I’m certain he would have recognized her voice, so I’m not quite sure what was up with that, but I didn’t much feel like pursuing it any further. Cindy never really had anything interesting to say anyway, so I doubt there was any sort of conspiracy between her and my brother, though it might have been intriguing if there had been.

I wasn't terribly fond of pets when I was little, but I did have a gerbil that I managed to keep alive for just over five years. I got him in the fifth grade. He was a gift from my parents, an attempt to make me take my mind off of more pressing and depressing matters. Whenever I first told someone about him or showed him to someone, I would challenge that person to guess his name. They never could. I was always torn between being amused and frustrated by their blindness. The rodent's name was Rumplestiltskin.

My first love interest was Peter Charleston. I was in the sixth grade at the time. I feel like I was right on schedule. Some girls get it early, others get it late, but I felt like I was just right. He had chestnut hair and eyes of the same color. He wore his hair just down to his ears and he had a dog that he uncreatively named Rover. I never saw the dog in person, but he showed me pictures of it, and it looked to me that it must be the type of dog that always had fleas and that you wouldn’t even bother bathing because it would just get dirty again. It didn’t even have a collar on in the picture, unless the long dingy hair was covering it up. Peter seemed proud of his dog Rover. It was about all he talked about. I’m kinda glad we never got around to kissing. I suppose if we had, he would have licked me with his tongue instead of using his lips.

The day that Cindy fell off her bike and scraped up her knee on the curb, I was all too excited about running back home and shouting out that Cindy was dying and that we had to call the ambulance. I was just about ready to dial 911, when our next door neighbor called and said that he had seen the spill from his window and helped Cindy into his house, where his wife was now washing the wound and applying hydrogen peroxide. I was a little disappointed when I looked at the damage later and realized it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. It turned out that most of the blood had been red paint from where our next door neighbors had just had the numbers 1128, their house number, printed on the curb near the base of their mailbox. My mother scolded us for riding our bikes in the street, which we were not allowed to do, and then popped some buttery popcorn for us to eat while we watched a movie about bears and elephants performing in the circus.

Everyone knows what a policeman looks like, even when they’re young, and so at the age of 10 I had no trouble realizing what was going on the instant my mother opened the door and we saw him standing there. The solemn look on his face gave it all away. I remember that his eyes were heavy and seemed to sink down towards his cheeks in a way that told me he had done this all too often before. All he had to say was “I’m sorry” and I knew exactly what had happened. Actually, I knew it as soon as he said to my mother, “Are you Mrs. Prescott?” You’d think they’d be a bit more delicate and tender about these things, but they have to go on like that and give it all away. Still, my mother didn’t start crying until he explained exactly what had happened. I never quite understood why it took her so long. I thought, somewhat bitterly, that trees don’t move and that I was certain my sister wasn’t the one doing the driving.

I wrote my first novel when I was 14, but no one would publish it. When I showed it to my English teacher, Mr. Buckner, he told me that plagiarism was illegal. I didn’t say anything more to him about it, but I was rather proud that he would think that. Most of the comments I got back from the publishers said that the mystery was impossible and that no reader could ever figure it out. I didn’t get it. It was much to obvious to me, even more obvious than the mystery movies I had just started watching on TV.

I met Andrew in English history, Jason in biology, and Matt in organic chemistry. They were all nice enough, but I wasn't really interested in any of them. They each asked me out, and I rejected each of them. It was the hardest with Matt because he was the cutest of the bunch, but I had had practice with the other two by then, so that made it a little easier. I think some rumors might have gone around my dorm building that I had sexual problems, but I ignored all such nonsense. I knew it wasn't really the problem, and I convinced myself that that knowledge was enough to keep me going.

My father taught me how to drive, and he was not a very good teacher. I could sense that he was apprehensive about the thought of me getting out on the road, but he was probably better than my mother would have been, so I suppose I should count my blessings. I often wonder if he was any better with my younger brother, but I haven't bothered to ask about it. Dad wouldn't let me get my learner's permit until I was 16 and all my friends were already driving on their own. I finally got my license when I was 18, a matter of weeks before I left home for college. I'm really glad that I did get my license before college because that way I could always be the designated driver whenever my friends went out to party, which was essentially every other weekend. I would sit and watch them get drunk and then I would drive them all home. I frequently caught myself almost starting to wonder what would have happened if I hadn't been there, but I was always able to stop myself before the thoughts crossed my mind. I knew that those possibilities were not alternate endings that I wished to explore.

I read as much as I possibly could all through college, and into my graduate years as well. The summer after my first year of grad school, I even went back to all of the old Agatha Christie novels I had completed years earlier. I made a game of seeing how many alleged plot twists and red herrings I could remember after reading only the first page of the story. I did pretty well. I think I only forgot five or six moderately important things out of all the novels that I revisited, but who's counting anyway?

When Cindy told me she thought she had found the love of her life, my immediate reaction was to shake my head and sigh. Of course, she could not see nor hear that response since we were communicating via instant messenger, but I think she sensed it anyway. After a pause to collect my thoughts, I typed back that I hoped she would be careful and then quickly added that I really needed to get to bed so I could get up early for class the next day. I could picture her frowning and moving her fingers off of the keys as she sat at her computer hundreds of miles away, and then she typed back, "OK, see ya." I think she might have been meaning to type more, but I logged off before I saw any of it. I really was tired and I wasn't up to dealing with that sort of thing.

I always thought that pelicans were funny looking birds. They had a few at the zoo, and I would go and visit them the first weekend of every month while I was at college. It was interesting to watch how they changed. The third time I went, one of the old ones had died and they had gotten a new bird to replace him. The ninth time, there were two new babies in the cage. The seventeenth time, one of the babies had been transported to another zoo and his brother had been refusing to eat. The eighteenth time, the brother was dead. I don't know if pelicans can die of broken hearts, but I'm quite certain that that pelican did. I wondered if his brother shared the same fate, but I never bothered to look into it.

I would have gotten an A in my sophomore composition class if I hadn't confronted my professor about his obvious infatuation with me. No one else in the class seemed to notice, but it was all too obvious to me. When I asked to speak to him after class one day, I had the feeling he thought that I was finally going to respond to his subtle glances and advances in a positive way. When I told him I wished he would stop hitting on me, he became furious. He acted as if he had no idea what I was talking about, but his darting eyes gave it all away. When he was finished with his rant, I asked him point blank if he could deny that he had feelings for me and he stumbled over his words for several seconds before finally leaving the question unanswered.

I ended up getting a C- on the paper that just a week earlier he had told me sounded promising. It was about the real life influences on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's character of Sherlock Holmes. The supposed reason for the poor grade was my failure to cite sources at six key points in the paper as well as my use of long run-on sentences at the bottom of page three and the top of page five, but he and I both know the truth.

The first of the three times I was in the cemetery, it was very cold. The weatherman had said it might even snow, even though it was only October. I remember the chilling wind blowing my hair and freezing the tears that trickled down my cheeks. I was very somber, as I should have been, but I couldn't help but think about how pretty she had looked in her casket at the church. I overheard my parents talking about how banged up her face had been before, but the undertaker or whoever deals with that stuff had done an excellent job covering it up and making her look almost as pretty as she had been before. I had glanced at him, but I hadn't lingered long. For one thing, I hardly even knew him and for another, I had still managed at that point to convince myself that it was his fault.

In the cemetery, the wooden cases were closed and wreaths of red and blue flowers were laid on top of them. The priest said a few words and then we all went back to the church for lunch. I noted that no alcohol was served and since the only other time I had had a meal at the church was after the wedding and I had never been to a funeral before, I wondered if that was common practice at a post-cemetery lunch or not.

I remember when I moved into an apartment for the first time at the beginning of my junior year. Before then, I had lived in the dorms. I really hadn’t gone through my stuff much since I first moved into the dorms at the beginning of my college career. I was amazed by some of the things that I found when I went through it all before moving into my apartment. Old notebooks full of my ideas for stories. I watched the progressions. First it was stuff about ponies and rainbows and that sort of things. Then it was acrobats and circuses and carnivals. Then there was the brief period of stories about happy families overcoming challenges to remain together and happy. Then came the mysteries. There were pages upon pages of mystery ideas. I even managed to find the one that I had developed into my failed novel. I was smiling as I went through the pages until I came to a page I had completely forgotten about. It was the romance page. I can’t even remember where that phase fit in, but at one point, I had considered romance writing. Stories of loves discovered, lost, and rekindled. I looked over my notes and was amazed at how easily I had been able to make characters fall in love. The only thing more amazing was how easily I had been able to break their hearts for the sake of a good story. A death in a romance was different than a death in a murder mystery, I contemplated. But then again, maybe it wasn’t so different after all.

Before I let myself think about it more, I opened up another notebook and smiled. It was my biology notebook from the most recent semester. Page upon page of chromosomes and organ names and animal family trees. I pushed the other notebooks aside. I knew who I had become. Admiring the work of others was one thing, but I could no longer create a masterpiece myself.

Cindy’s getting married next week and she wanted me to be a bridesmaid, but I wrote back and told her I couldn’t. I’m going to be out of town that weekend, in Alaska studying horned puffin mating habits. I don’t really want to go to the wedding anyway. I never quite figured out what was up between her and my brother and I figure that if he goes and I see him there, it will become all too clear to me exactly how they feel about each other. I don’t want to know everything.

I really do have to get to the airport now so I can catch my plane to Puffinsville, but I will be back, and I’d love to talk to you some more when I return. And I’d love to hear, when I get back, if you’ve figured out who done it with what in where.

Old Poetry

2009-10-04T15:25:00.000-05:00

I have often pretended to be a poet. Most of my "poetry" is really just ramblings of emotion, without much true form or beauty. Here are a few (unmodified) pieces (among many) from years ago (high school and freshman year of college) that might be more bearable than the rest.

A Time to Love

There was a boy I loved once.

He was smart and handsome and strong, I thought.

I admired him and felt we could be deliriously happy together.

I tried to tell him how I felt, but he rejected me.

He said he didn’t love me like I loved him.

I treasured him in my heart, but it seemed I held no place in his.

As the years passed, we moved on.

There were other boys, yet I still thought of this one.

What could have been, if he had said yes?

Many years later, I saw him again.

He looked at me with gentle eyes

And pulled an old picture of me from his pocket.

“I love you,” he whispered.

I smiled weakly, stroked my hand gently along his cheek,

And said simply, “Good-bye.”

Then I turned and walked away.

It was too late.

I did not love him anymore.

Moments in Time

Stop. Pause.

Wait and look around.

Its a moment,

and its passing on,

dying forever.

You cannot stop

it.

At one moment,

I thought I knew.

At one instant,

I felt I was at the top.

Moments in time,

time ticking along.

Never the same again.

The raven had it right.

Never will we return.

Never will it be again.

Nevermore.

Breathe.

And life goes on.

What I had is gone.

Could there be something better?

Moments in time.

Seconds ticking away.

What is time?

What is the future?

Its different now.

Nevermore.

Yet it could be again.

And it could also be better.

I Never Realized I Was Thirsty

I never realized I was thirsty until you gave me something to drink.

I never realized I was hungry until you fed me.

I never realized I was empty until you filled me up inside.

I never realized I was dead until you brought me back to life.

I never realized how much I needed you until you fulfilled my needs.

I never realized you could love me so much until you did.

I never realized you were standing right there until you opened my eyes.

I did not know what thirst was.

I did not know what hunger was.

I did not know what need was.

I did not know what love was.

Now I do know.

I will never be thirsty again.

Chocolate

Candy coated craze.

Combine clusters.

Eat it all.

Savor.

Melting inside.

Pure, rich, creamy,

beautiful.

Such a treasure,

such a vice,

such a shame.

What a waste of wanting.

Amazing attrition of affection.

What a waste of love.

Luscious love weakens.

What goes inside this way,

is only skin deep.

Not all that is real is genuine.

Ingest something that matters.

The Flag Still Waves

“Oh say does that star spangled banner yet wave, ore the land of the free and the home of the brave?” -Francis Scott Key

In the dreaded darkness of night,

I thrust my sight up to the highest building.

There I saw a pure light shining on our flag, flying brilliantly,

The stars and stripes forever.

And I knew I was free.

Then I watched in horror as the flag plunged to the bitter earth below

And a great, wide chasm opened in the earth before me.

I looked across the dark and dangerous void

To where the once glorious flag lay dead and defiled.

And I knew I was not brave.

I need courage again.

Freedom is not enough.

My First Attempts

2009-10-04T14:56:00.000-05:00

When I was very young, I fancied myself one day becoming a great author of fiction. As soon as I could move a pen to form words, I did so. Somewhere stashed away are notebooks full of my stories and ramblings. When I was a little older, I even joined a young writers' club and got a little something published in their newsletter. When my family first got a word processor (as a predecessor to a real computer) I was thrilled at being able to write and edit more easily. When I was in middle school and high school, I saw ideas for stories all around me and wrote them down as often as I could. And even now I have many works of fiction and poetry (most only started and no where near complete) saved on my computer.

So what happened? Why am I not the famous author I planned to be? My desire to be creative was always there, but it was eclipsed by my primary passion and talent of mathematics, and later (after I discovered it existed) of computer science. From a young age, I excelled in the more analytical and logical side of things. I studied in accelerated or advanced math courses starting in the fourth grade and continuing on through high school. During high school, I also discovered something even greater than mathematics: computer science, and I determined what path I wanted my professional life to take. In college, I attained a bachelor's and master's degree in C.S. as well as a second major in mathematics tacked on to the bachelor's. I loved logic, mathematics, and computer science, but as my passion and skill for what is now my career grew, the part of me that had once hoped to be a great creative writer was often pushed aside.

Especially in recent years, my secondary passion has truly fallen on hard times. I still write some, but not as much as I used to, and very rarely have I shared what I have written. This blog is my attempt to begin to change that.

I'm not even sure anyone will ever see this. I might end up keeping it a secret, as I have kept most of my writing so far, or I may not. At the very least, perhaps this will force me to write more, and to regain what I had when I was very young. I've been training my brain to go in one direction for too long. It is time to see if I can reclaim an ambidextrous brain.